The Year She Left Us (25 page)

“You had no right,” she repeated softly, and she bent to put her boots on, her back like an old woman's.

S
he got to the office by eight the next morning. She found her boss already standing over his desk, scribbling in a file. “Can I talk to you?” Charlie said.

He looked up impatiently. His shirt gaped where a button was missing.

“Are you going to challenge my sister on the Wilson Ng trial?”

His hand froze. A cunning look colonized his florid face. “Should I?” he asked.

“I would,” Charlie said.

He gave a shallow nod, and she turned and strode away.

CHAPTER 24

LES

T
he news traveled fast. Hal Nugent, the public defender, had stood up in Department 22 and said the magic words: “Your Honor, may I be sworn?” The clerk had stepped forward, Nugent had raised his hand, and ten seconds later, Judge Mullen had been assigned to preside in the Wilson Ng trial.

“It happened so quickly, Riordan forgot to change his expression from slow boat to lucky bastard,” her bailiff, Tony, reported to Judge Kong. “The P.D. dropped a huge gift in his lap, and he didn't even realize it until it was all over. There's no way he's going to lose this case now, but if anybody can do it, Patrick Riordan can.”

Judge Kong dismissed him with a curt nod. Tony backed out of her chambers, worried. Had he gone too far with his crack about the D.A.? The judge insisted on a certain measure of respect, but she held the office, not Riordan, in high regard. She'd joked with Tony more than once about what she called Riordan's “Botox look”: when he didn't understand a legal point that his opponent or the judge was making, his face froze up like a sherbet mold. Tony didn't know why she'd gone so suddenly quiet. Surely Judge Kong didn't care that the P.D. had challenged her. Peremptory challenges happened to every judge from time to time, sometimes by prosecutors, sometimes by the defendant. Judge Kong had never taken it personally, as she shouldn't. “There's always another case waiting,” she said to Tony whenever the docket shifted.

She must have other things on her mind
, Tony decided. At ten o'clock, he'd bring her a cappuccino and offer to pick up her dry cleaning. She never let him, but he liked to offer just the same.

At her desk, Les slashed a red
X
in the brief she was reading. She got up and moved restlessly around the office, shoving a book into a shelf, flicking a drawer shut.
Your Honor, may I be sworn?
It galled her plenty that Hal Nugent had stood up in court and gotten her bounced from the trial. There probably had been press in the gallery, their knives out for Ng or the lawyers or anybody they could attack. No doubt Reynold Low had been there, rallying Ng supporters. It was humiliating to be challenged in such a public case.

Calm down
, Les told herself. She returned to her high-backed leather chair and poured herself a glass of water. Every judge was occasionally challenged. It meant nothing. Counsel had their reasons, and there was no profit in trying to guess why or in taking it as a knock on one's competence or reputation. There was no reason to think that the P.D. judged Les badly. Nobody but Les would give it a second thought. Still, what was Nugent thinking? Les would have considered carefully every evidentiary issue that might save his client or hang him. Judge Mullen wouldn't give him the time of day.

T
hree days later, Les stood awkwardly by herself in a crowded Chinatown restaurant. She was at the annual luncheon for the local Asian bar. She remembered the day not that many years ago when all the Asian lawyers in town fit into five or six tables. Now the whole banquet floor was full; she swiftly counted more than forty tables. There were bigwigs in attendance from across the spectrum—judges, lawyers, deans, politicians—many of them white, a few black or Hispanic. Every major law firm felt obligated to buy a table. Burrell was here; they'd exchanged a quick hello. Charlie wasn't. Les wondered if she'd skipped the luncheon this year because the tickets had gone up to a hundred and fifty bucks a pop, or because she didn't want to run into Les. She fiddled with a glass of wine and looked around for someone to talk to. Reynold Low stood nearby; he raised his glass to Les, but to her surprise, he didn't approach her. Reynold usually took the time to schmooze with the judges in the room.

“Judge Kong,” a hearty voice blared behind her. Reverend Stanley Yeung was holding out his hand. Les had a strong grip, but Reverend Stanley's was stronger. “How much longer will we have you on the state court bench?”

Les demurred. “I love my job,” she said. “Every day brings something new.”

“I heard you were being kicked upstairs. Next thing you know, I'll be reading your name in the papers as the first Asian American nominee to the U.S. Supremes,” he joked.

Les smiled uncertainly. In Reverend Stanley's voice she detected a faint edge—he was usually ebullient to the point of aggression, but she recognized something else. She had heard the same from certain individuals—usually men, though not always—testifying in court: the unmistakable jollity of malice.

I wish my sister were here
, thought Les.
Charlie would know how to talk to the people in this room.

B
urrell called and asked to come over. She met him at home, though she knew the minute she saw him that they wouldn't go right to bed. He sat with her in the living room, his face stern, his bulk on her sofa more obstacle than body.

“It's not going to happen this time,” he said directly. “Your name didn't get sent on to the Judiciary Committee.”

“Why not?” Les asked.

“We can try again,” Burrell said. “There'll be another opening next year when Judge Burch goes to senior status. Or you can try for a federal magistrate position. That might be the way to go.”

“We talked about that,” Les said sharply. “I want judge, not magistrate. What happened?”

Burrell's baritone sounded wrong in her house, like a cowboy ordering a cattle herd through a tearoom.

“Reynold Low pulled his support. You lost the Chinatown community backing. He made a big deal out of the P.D.'s peremptory challenge in the Wilson Ng case. He said it was an indication that you didn't have high credibility with the members of the bar who appear regularly before you. It was total bullshit, of course. Nobody pays attention to that sort of procedural detail.”

“It was one simple case! There's not a judge on the bench who hasn't been challenged.”

“You and I know that, but Reynold Low blew it all out of proportion. It spooked the committee.” Burrell got up to make himself a drink. The news delivered, his face relaxed, his shoulders softened. “I promise you that we'll try again. Maybe they'll give you a fresh look. There's nobody else with your stellar record, and sooner or later, they're going to have to put up an Asian face. The short list has three white guys on it. Reynold Low just shot himself in the foot.”

“Does it have to be this way?” Les asked. “Do I have to be the ‘Asian face'?”

Burrell barked a laugh. “You're asking me that question? I'm afraid so. That's the way it has to be.” He checked his watch. “Let's go to bed,” he said.

Les looked around the room—at what, she didn't know. She wished again that her front windows opened. The air in her house was stale with disappointment.

“I can't,” she said.

Burrell made her a drink and put his arms around her. He talked, and she listened, wanting to believe him. His voice, so wrongly pitched a moment ago, reverberated in her ear like the growl of a steady motor. He said they would try again; he said he would help her through it. Be with me, he said. We belong together. They moved into the bedroom. Les undressed and spread herself on the bed. She quickly pulled him on top of her, hiding her face in his neck. Tears came when she finished—ridiculous, silly tears that felt as real as if she were weeping.

He rolled onto his back and held her tightly. “The whole band played that time,” he said. “Huh. I didn't think that could happen anymore. It's been a long while.”

“You know this is over,” Les said.

“No, it's not,” he said.

She didn't insist, not yet. Behind her desolation, she felt the heat of rage. Her anger bewildered her almost as much as her loneliness. She pressed herself to her lover's chest and traced his rib cage again and again, the bones faintly visible under his thick flesh and her finger a leadless pencil. It was over at last. She wept true tears as Burrell slept deeply beside her.

CHAPTER 25

ARI

J
anuary began with no chance in hell that I'd be turning over a new leaf. I was no more visible to myself than the Northern Lights, which had vanished. The kids returned to day care and the legislature came back to town—Peg said those amounted to the same thing. Everybody but me, it seemed, was focused on new beginnings. Peg read seed catalogs the way Charlie looked after her clients; she was planning her spring garden and dreaming of what would grow. Steve made a list of household projects. I helped him mark a wall in my basement den; he said he wanted to install a bookshelf where I could keep the used books I'd bought here and there for pennies. Peg frowned when he said that and pointed out that the laundry room needed a shelf, too, which Steve said he'd do right after he put one up for me.

A couple of times, Peg and Steve took me skiing at Eaglecrest on Douglas Island. I wasn't very good to start with and didn't get much better. I thought of A.J. skimming down the mountain, attacking the hills with grace. In the evenings, after the Statehood closed, I went to Connor and Shawna's house to watch their little boy, Caleb, while they worked on planning the Dance-Off. I had a lot of sympathy for Caleb. He always backed away in fear, instantly comprehending that my grinning appearance meant his parents were cutting out. I remembered again how I had jumped out of the car on every Whackadoodle Saturday to run to our latest borrowed classroom or church basement or playground. I hadn't wanted to miss a single second because WeiWei had been waiting for me, toe ring displayed, skinny arms open, sardonic smile on her face.

The January Dance-Off was the community's biggest fund-raiser. Shawna and Connor were in the last days of planning, working the phones and directing the volunteers. This year the money was going for youth programs and mobile medical equipment. Sometimes Steve joined them to talk to sponsors and figure out where the bands and extra generators would go, though mostly he enjoyed cooking up a big pot of chili for the committee. When Connor first described the Dance-Off to me, his eyes bright, his fat fingers flying, I had dismissed it in my mind as a corny, small-town event, but after four months of living indoors, I, like everyone else in town, was eager for it to start. Anchorage had its Fur Rondy and championship sled-dog races and Juneau had its twenty-four-hour dance marathon to chase the winter blues.

The crowd gathered early at the Old Armory for a start time of four o'clock. Shawna, in a sparkly silver top, gave me an excited hug and collected my ticket. Friends and neighbors were high-fiving their way through the doors. I was wearing a black tank and hoodie, nothing as glam as Shawna's sequins, and a pair of good running shoes that Peg had loaned me to keep my feet from giving out. I was worried that somebody might bump my finger hard, but I was practiced by then in keeping myself protected.

Inside, people shed their jackets and showed off their T-shirts: Rotary Club members, veterans, Realtors, firefighters. Church groups, jazz band musicians, road runners, the fish ladder crew. A team of tobacco spitters—the top five leaders from the previous Fourth of July, all of whom, Shawna informed me, could hit the twenty-foot mark. The Juneau Jumpers, a championship jump-roping team. A brigade of hairy men dressed in bonnets and diapers. If you weren't dancing, you were there to deejay or emcee or tell jokes or yodel. Anyone who doesn't show up, Connor said, gets hella shit on Monday.

A band started loud and fast with top single hits. I jumped in, trying to get loose but feeling awkward. There were two hundred people on the dance floor, waving their arms and shouting. Every three hours was a block; every block had a theme. The eighties, nineties, hip-hop, and oldies. At one point, Shawna spotted me by myself and shimmied over to draw me into a quick twirl. I let her take my one hand and matched her move for move, though I couldn't summon her beaming smile. Women walked through the crowd, urging us to drink water. I saw Steve and Peg pogoing to the Stones, “Jumpin' Jack Flash” launching solid Steve upright. He couldn't jump very high, but his Chuck Taylors left the floor. Peg looked as serene as ever.

Around ten at night, I spotted Noah. He was in the middle of a teeming group of dancers—by the looks of them, fellow students. He had his eyes closed and his arms in the air. Big circles of armpit sweat soaked his shirt. Gone was his usual tight expression; his brow was relaxed, his mouth slightly open. I didn't think he would know what to do on the dance floor, but his step was easy and his hips moved with the beat. He looked younger and lighter—like his father in the photograph, at home with his place in the world. I didn't go up to him. We hadn't run into each other since our conversation at the Statehood, and I guessed that he, like me, was choosing to keep his distance. When he threw back his head to the music, I saw his long, white throat like a snow print in the dark.

I worked my way to the door. My feet hurt and my finger throbbed and escape seemed the only option. I told myself that I didn't need to stick around for the whole bush-league thing. I'd bought my ticket and shown up for a few hours, and nobody would miss me. A group on break was standing just inside the doorway; somebody grabbed my arm. It was Rick from Wrangell, the guy from the bar before Christmas. He was wearing a green bowling shirt with squiggly black and pink lines and a wide leather wristband and hideous shoes—bright racing flats, the color of traffic cones. He looked about forty, even older than I remembered. He gave me a big wink and yelled into my ear. He had a bottle, he said; his car was right outside, and hadn't I had enough group dancing for one night?

I glanced back as I was leaving. A Native troupe had filled the stage, their leader a great, feathered bird and the dancers striped in green, yellow, and red. I missed the lion dancers of a Chinatown parade, but home was far behind me.

A
few days later, Noah showed up again at the Statehood.

“I saw you at the Dance-Off,” he said. “Why didn't you say hello?”

“Why didn't you?” I answered.

He didn't bite back. He'd done some more thinking, he said. He'd come by to see if I wanted to hang out with him and his friends. They were picking him up in five minutes, closing time at the Statehood. “Steve was right. I guess I do have questions. Things I've been curious about that my mother never told me.”

I hesitated. Had he seen me leaving with Rick from Wrangell? I didn't want to be Noah's pity project, but I read in his clear eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses the openness he wanted to show me, either because it was there, or because I was horribly lonely. I wanted to say yes. Anything was better than another night in my basement.

“I don't know much,” I said slowly. “Steve can tell you what you want to know.”

He shook his head. “I can't ask Steve. It's painful for him, don't you think? To talk about my dad?”

I remembered Steve's grief at the kitchen table, but also how happy he'd been describing Aaron's high spirits and the early days of their friendship. “People tell me all the time not to look back,” I said. I was thinking of Gran. “Move on. Put the past behind you.”

Noah's pale face flickered. “You're probably right,” he said. “My mother never has, and it's eaten up her whole life.”

“It's the opposite in my family. I guess I'm the one who's no good at forgiveness. I've been known to hold a grudge forever.”

“Uh-oh,” Noah said. The shadow had passed; he was halfway to a grin. “Then I'm in trouble.”

I laughed. I was dying now to shuck my apron and go.

“Forgiveness is overrated,” I told him. That, too, sounded a lot like Gran.

A car horn blew. I followed him out the door.

N
oah's friends were brother and sister, Corey and Brigid. Corey, like Noah, was a junior at UAS, and Brigid a year older. Noah introduced me as a friend of Steve and Peg's. We drove to a house party in Corey's pickup, Brigid and I on the back bench seat and the guys in front with Corey's feathery mutt, Rooster, panting happily between them.

“Where are you from?” Corey asked. I told him San Francisco. He was big and blond with chapped hands, ruddy cheeks, and a goggle-shaped tan line around his eyes, the telltale mark of a skier. Brigid was tall and glowing. They were from Haines, Alaska, a four-hour ferry ride from Juneau. Their parents, she told me, were sailing buddies of Steve and Peg's.

“Are you a student?” Brigid asked. She reached across me to fix my twisted seat belt, an unconscious move that came, I guessed, with being an older sister. It felt nice to be taken care of. I thought again of WeiWei.

“No, not a student. I just came up here to hang out. Work for a while, take some time on my own. I was supposed to start college, but I didn't end up going.”

“Most people trying to find themselves, they come up here in the
summer
,” Corey said.

Brigid laughed. “Don't listen to him.” She gave me an appraising look. I drew my hand into my sleeve so she wouldn't see my missing finger. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Nineteen,” I said. It was almost true. My birthday was coming up.

“Okay then,” Brigid said, “old enough to party.”

I crashed at her place for the night.

W
e took Rooster the next day to Sandy Beach on Douglas Island, where the air smelled of sea and rain. I prised a stone from the soaked sand and rubbed it clean before slipping it into my pocket. I heard yelling, and turned to see Corey and Noah hooting and hollering to the waves. Rooster circled, barking, then took off again down the beach. Corey loped after him, wheeling and barking in turn. The drizzling mist clung to Brigid's blue cap like tiny sequins. When we walked into a coffee shop, Noah's glasses fogged up.

“We did that all the time as kids,” Corey said. “Dad said we were raised by wolves.” He punched Brigid on the shoulder. “I still run faster than you.”

“But I still beat your ass down the mountain,” Brigid said. “Do you have any siblings?” she asked me.

“Baby Bowns,” I said. I explained how, when I was a kid, I imagined I had a brother who had shared my orphanage crib. “There was a little tag around my neck. ‘Like eating, like the Bowns.' I made up all sorts of stories about what that word could mean.”

“That's sweet,” Brigid said.

“So you were adopted?” Corey asked. I nodded.

“You could have a sibling that you don't know about it,” Brigid said. “That's a weird thought.”

“I'll give you mine,” Corey volunteered.

“I had a friend who was adopted who found out she has a sister. She had that animated TV show about the adopted Chinese daughter. She did the voice. You know,
WeiWei's World
?” They stared at me blankly. “It was really popular,” I said.

“Yeah, among orphans,” Corey said.

“It seemed huge to me at the time. This family in Sweden saw a picture of WeiWei and thought that their daughter looked so much like her, there was a chance they were actually sisters.”

“Way, way out there,” Corey joked.

“Shut up, brute,” Brigid said. She had heard my voice change when I named WeiWei.

I told them how WeiWei had arranged for the sister to go to China, where WeiWei was filming a documentary about the orphanage she came from. “While they were in Guangzhou, a Chinese lab tested their DNA and confirmed the girls are full sisters. Now they see each other as often as they can.”

“Wow, how lucky,” Brigid said. “Have you met her? Are the sisters a lot alike?”

Under the table, I pinched the stump of my little finger. Noah was watching me, a look of concern on his face. “We used to be friends,” I said. “I don't know her anymore.”

F
ebruary passed. I spent more time with Noah, Corey, and Brigid. The four of us made plans for the spring. I mentioned to Peg that we were talking about hiking the Chilkoot, and she frowned and said that the trail wouldn't be open before I left, so I knew Peg wanted me gone. Steve dropped his chin when she said that, but he didn't correct her. Even Jackson, the cat, stopped sleeping on my bed and stared at me, yellow-eyed, from across the basement room. I'd overstayed my welcome, but I didn't know where else to go. I had enough money to get back to San Francisco, but I couldn't face the thought of going home to Charlie, and although I'd told A.J. that I was saving up for Beijing, I couldn't face that, either. If I left Juneau—my dark, safe wolf den and the suspended life I led—I might make something bad happen all over again, and so I stayed put, pouring coffee at the Statehood and hanging on at Steve and Peg's.

Noah didn't ask me about Charlie and Aaron. He must have seen that I didn't like talking about my mother, or he'd decided that, like Steve had said, it wasn't my story to tell. I told him a little bit about growing up in San Francisco and about my aunt Les and Gran. He showed me the work he'd done on his Juneau project. History absorbed him, especially the old maps he'd found and studied, but he had declared environmental science as his major, a subject that returned that tight look to his face. I wondered if he felt duty-bound to follow in Aaron's footsteps.

A couple of times when Noah and I found ourselves alone, our steps slowed and our bodies drew closer together. Then one of us would flush and fall back while the other stutter-stepped. I could see he was wondering if something was happening between us; I thought maybe it was, and I wasn't sure what I wanted. I liked the way things were. Most of the time, we were easy together, taking short winter walks, hanging out with Corey and Brigid. If I caught him looking at me as if he was thinking of kissing me, I flung a sharp remark to dig at him a little. I even told him about cutting off my finger—to scare him off, I told myself, not because, like Steve, I needed for someone to know.

He recoiled, as I'd expected.