Rosethorn (20 page)

I went to dinner at Daniel’s house, to meet his parents properly. I had seen them once after our first show, and vaguely recall a nice-seeming couple hugging Daniel backstage. Daniel told me they were eager to meet me and I was flattered. I expected them to be like him-middle-class, nice, clean-cut and they were--very nice. Even their names, Bill and Debbie Wood, are so very American and apple pie.

They greeted me with such big smiles and happy faces and were so polite and interested. Daniel beamed, smiling as widely as them. In fact everybody was smiling. Widely. With big teeth. It was a very smiley group. Even his brother, home for the summer, smiled widely, if a little dismissively in greeting me before turning right back to his room to talk to his girlfriend on the phone.

I was a little nervous, but his parents asked me such nice questions, such as where my family was from and what the Philippines was like and how I like living in the US, as if I was fresh off the boat instead of having lived here nearly all my life.

But I answered them politely for they were so very nice and smiled so widely. And so it was quite a shock to me when just as nicely and still with such pleasant smiles on their fair American faces, the father asks me, as one would ask what the weather was like, if I ate cat.

I sit stunned, my face frozen, thinking that I must have misheard, for they are both looking at me with such wide and harmless eyes and open faces, he could not have just asked me if I ate cat.

But there's nothing wrong with my hearing. A beat or two and it is I who am embarrassed for them. They are such nice people and I, I am their son’s exotic girlfriend, what else could they have asked within the first 15 minutes of meeting one such as me, but if I ate cat?

Daniel says nothing, not one protest, not even an intake of outraged breath beside me. I can't turn, but am mesmerized by those two smiling and innocent faces in front of me. I don’t know what I say in response. I know that I stammer and still, quite as shocking, am ashamed, as if I had invited this insult
just by being there, for who could fault such nice and lovely people as Bill and Debbie Wood?

I don't know how I continued with polite conversation-incredibly they don't falter, don't stammer, no reddening of the face to indicate the realization that they had committed even a minor blunder. Even Daniel beside me continues with polite conversation. They can't all be actors—nothing is truly amiss.

And then I find myself at the dinner table, being served salad with a roll, napkin on my lap-are they amazed that a savage can imitate her betters?

And at last my fury rises, at them, at myself. I am not a mute. Why didn’t I insult them back? Why didn’t I storm out angrily? Or at least unleash upon them one of my cold and icy stares? No, instead I'm sitting at their table and eating their cold, bland food, agreeing to their degradation of me.

The brother has rejoined the happy little group and engages in pleasant conversation as well. No more questions are directed at me for it's understood, I suppose, that I'm a quiet, little Asian girl with nothing interesting to contribute, especially about American topics like baseball and movies and politics.

And as we're eating Debbie’s spaghetti, everyone chewing in satisfaction and ease, I say pleasantly, “You know, cat would taste good with this sauce."

Everyone stops eating, faces frozen in mid-chew, appalled at my tastelessness. But my appetite, which had so far been missing, has suddenly returned with a vengeance.

I am now hungry.

I look around as I help myself to more spaghetti sauce, all the faces turned towards me in silence. “You know, when you asked me earlier if I ate cat? I love it with red sauce, although it’s not bad with a white, creamy one either,” I continue jovially.

I start eating with relish, talking even with my mouth full, for I'm sure they did not expect me to mind my manners.

“Most people think that cat is hard to prepare and plus all that hair, it might be hard to swallow." I point to my throat. “But as long as you skin it right, it would be just fine. And you know, despite the saying, there is only one way to skin a cat." I say with a cackle and a wink.

I am filled with a strange sort of exhilaration as I notice that Bill and Debbie’s faces are turning red. I don't look at Daniel--crush or no crush, we're history. The brother’s face is full of confusion. No one says a word and no one is eating, except for me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a fat tabby slowly walk into the room and consider briefly whether I should give it a meaningful once over and lick my lips. But no, that would be too over the top.

“You can prepare cat any number of ways, all very nifty,” I impart conspiratorially to Debbie, who sits there stupidly, just as fat as her tabby, with wide eyes and her smile plastered on her like a mannequin.

“I could teach you if you like. My favorites are Cat Cacciatore, Feline Surprise Casserole, Meow Medley." I can see outrage forming in Debbie and Bill’s faces but I decide to continue on.

“And my mother makes the most fabulous Roast Cat this side of Manila. I don’t know what she puts in it, but it is tasty!" Nothing can stop me now. They’ll have to throw me out.

“What about Cat a L’Orange?" The brother speaks. I'm taken aback, but just for a moment.

I'm unsure if he means to skewer me at my own game, but I decide I don’t care. I’ll keep playing it straight.

“Mmmmm. Cat a L’Orange. I had that once in a fancy restaurant. It was delicious. Cat and orange sauce go very well together.”

“It must be the citrus
,” he replies, just as straight.

“Yes. I find that pairing cat with, say, a nice lemon and wine sauce—“

“With a little garlic and some shallots-“

I nod, smiling inspite of myself, “Cat Scampi. A classic.”

“Have you tried Cat Fondue?” He asks, looking at me and not at his parents who any second now will surely stop this whole thing and forbid his brother to ever go out with this cat-eating barbarian.

“Yes, last year when I was in Switzerland,” I say extravagantly. After tonight, I will never see these people again, thank god. “But I will have to say the French really know how to cook cat in the most delicious sauces, so tender and flavorful." I smack my lips.

“Chat Fricassee?" I nod appreciatively. Brother’s got a talent for improvisation.

“Oui. Chat Fri-”

“Stella, would you go with me to my cousin’s wedding in two weeks?" Daniel interrupts and I turn to look at him for the first time. I had forgotten he was there. His face is red and he looks utterly miserable. I almost feel pity for him. I decide that now is the time to make my exit and tell Daniel that I would never go out with him again, not when his parents had insulted me to my face and he did nothing.

“Daniel!" His mother speaks at last, her voice shrill and sharp, “We already RSVP’d weeks ago. She can’t just show up. There’s no room for her."

“I already asked Christa, mom. She told me that a couple people cancelled so there is room." I can tell by Daniel’s face that if his parents had not been there, he would have already flung himself at my feet and begged for my forgiveness. Debbie's still looking at him, her pleasant face broken with an angry frown. The last thing she wants is for me to go.

“I’d love to, Daniel." I say impulsively in my sweetest voice. “I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

Relief washes over his face and the brother smirks. Bill looks dumbfounded, and Debbie struggles to look pleasant, all the while masking how upset she is.

I excuse myself before dessert, saying how I have to get up early tomorrow for Conservatory. Daniel takes me home and I have to sit and listen to him blubber about how his father didn’t mean to insult me,
that his father’s plant is full of Chinese workers (so?), how his parents really think I’m a nice girl, etc., etc. I say nothing, but turn away when he tries to kiss me. I can't stand to be touched by him any longer and even his anguish can’t move me.

What kind of knight was he when he had failed in defending my honor?

I ran up to my room and cried. It’s 1986. Does everyone think like this and I just don’t know it? I feel defeated and ashamed, although I have no reason to be. My grandfather was governor of his province, my family has had two Miss Philippines, my parents went to a prestigious university in Manila, and I was Guenevere.

Yet I've just been treated...I can’t even put a word to how I've been treated. What amazes me is how kind they looked, even as they pushed my face into the dirt. And I’ve just promised to go to a wedding full of people just like them.

June 22, 1986

My head is ready to explode. My first week of Conservatory and I have had to throw out everything I thought I knew about acting-absolutely everything. It is all so intense. The instructor is harsh and exacting; so different from Mrs.
 O’Connell, who, although I adore her, apparently has taught me to be nothing more than a ham.

He pretty much cut everybody to shreds the first day. Some of the younger, more sensitive ones ended up crying. I wanted to cry too, but I didn’t want to incur more of his wrath. He told us all to toughen ourselves up, that being a professional actor meant having to take criticism and rejection and that anybody who couldn’t stomach it should leave right now. No one left, but I think it’s because our tuition’s non-refundable. That’s a lot of money to pay for someone to tell you you’re shit. But he’s right.

I feel scrubbed raw.

I’ve decided that I'll give Daniel another chance. I must rescue him from a fate that is surely worse than death—to live a life of ignorance like his parents. There is hope for him—after all he had enough taste and brains to pick me. And I’ve also decided that it must fall to me to educate his family—Perhaps my grace and poise and wit will illuminate their dark, little minds.

Daniel has pleaded with me over and over again and I can't remain cold to him. I do believe him when he says I am everything to him.

...And, I must admit, I am just a little excited to go to a wedding. I’ve been working on a beautiful white eyelet dress with lace. I don’t know how I’ve found the time, but it will be my new costume and my new part-that of the young ingénue, all beauty and truth to shame the witless Woods. I know I'll look angelic and sweet in it.

I’ve been running from Conservatory to rehearsal and back-so dizzyingly busy. But I love it! This is what it will be like once I go to New York.

June 25, 1986

I'm a failure. I have no talent. It's no use.

June 28, 1986

At last, a crumb. “You’re finally believable,” he tells me today.

It has spurred me to broach the subject of New York to Papa. You would have thought I had told him I aspired to be a hooker. I realized then that he consented to Midsummer and the Conservatory to humor me, that he still doesn’t think I am serious or even if I was, that I will change my mind. I now suspect that he allowed me have a boyfriend in hopes that Daniel would distract me.

I'll never let go of this dream.

June 30, 1986

Daniel’s mother has let it be known that it would be a “faux pas” for me to wear white to the wedding. Oh. Just so I understand—It’s perfectly acceptable to ask a guest if she eats cat, but an unforgivable, appalling social misstep for me to wear white to a wedding? Irony, hypocrisy, delusion, and fuck you, bitch, come to mind. It makes me even more determined to go to that stupid wedding, wear white, and flaunt it in her face.

No, I’ve a better plan. She doesn’t want me to wear white? Then I won’t. She’ll be sorry she ever meddled.

July 3, 1986

I can’t stop shaking. I’m not cold, I’m not sick, but I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know where to start. I can barely control my hand to write legibly. But write I must because I can do little else. I already know I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’m not good for anything else.

I'm looking at myself in the mirror and tell the girl, the woman there, “Remember this night, remember every detail,” as if I would ever forget.

The last two nights seem like they happened ages ago. I remember how fast and furiously I sewed a
new dress, my anger driving me late into the night. And when I finished it and saw how it fit me, how the deep red silk clung to my body, how I looked seductive in it, I wondered if perhaps it was too much, the neckline a little low, the red a little too provocative, if the cut of it made me too voluptuous.

I won’t lie and say that I didn’t know it would cause trouble. That’s precisely why I wore it.

I wrapped myself in a large red shawl to look outwardly demure. Papa only looked disapproving of the color, but could not say anything other than to be home by 10 since I was hurrying out the door with Daniel. I felt a little wild and I could feel in my whole body that something was about to happen today.

The wedding was held in a church in the city and was beautiful. There were flowers everywhere and the bride wore a gorgeous white silk gown with puffy sleeves. As she walked down the aisle in her white tulle veil, I wondered if I would ever be someone’s bride, ever give my whole life over to someone.