Paper Names

8 Tammy 2014 ‘I’m going to suffocate in this.’ Vince tugged at the sleeves of his Loro Piana blazer. He was fighting off a tantrum, the same one that surfaced every time we visited the Briarcliff Country Club with his family. The cap-toe oxfords pinched his feet. The tucked-in shirts bunched around his stomach. He hadn’t taken well to the club’s restrictions on his behavior either. No swearing, soliciting business, or taking pictures. ‘We aren’t even allowed to put drinks on the pool table. Where else am I supposed to put my glass during a game?’ he would complain. I smoothed out my dress – Rebecca Taylor, cocktail-length, floral silk – and clicked the heels of my nude pumps. Unlike Vince, I enjoyed dressing up for the occasion. More than that, I liked that Vince had to step it up with the collared shirts and turtlenecks. He looked so professorial. A handsome thinker. Out of habit, I reached for the phone in my purse to check for emails, but relaxed when I remembered Briarcliff’s no screens policy. A classy excuse to get away from the constant barrage of messages from the law firm. Just another convention that belonged to a class I didn’t inherit, but graduated into. A server hovered over me and pointed at the cups on his tray. I knew now to say, ‘Coffee, no cream, please.’ He smiled and placed a filled cup and a chocolate-dipped madeleine in front of me. My first few lunches at the club weren’t so graceful. I didn’t even understand how to order off the menu. I had pointed at the different dishes and asked Vince where the prices were. ‘You just pick one from each category,’ he had said. ‘So I pick four dishes?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘They’re all included in the membership fee that my parents pay every year.’ ‘I’ll just pick two,’ I said. ‘I’m not that hungry.’ I had never ordered more than one entrée and a dessert at a restaurant before. Vince sighed and said, ‘People will think that you have an eating disorder or you’re ungrateful or something.’ I decided on the plain vegetables and dip for my appetizer. ‘Crudites,’ I told the server, pronouncing it exactly how it was spelled. He looked confused. Vince jumped in and covered for me. ‘She meant cru-deh-tay. She knows that it’s French – she’s just messing with you.’ The madeleine tasted like a sugared cotton ball. Others at the table seemed to be enjoying it though. I followed their lead and dunked it into my coffee. It tasted like a bitter sponge. Maybe my palate hadn’t blossomed yet. Vince tapped my leg and said, ‘Are you done? I want to go say hi to my Aunt Cindy.’ The dining room’s high ceilings were adorned with gold accents and wooden carvings. Silvery curtains with tassels framed the windows. Amber-hued landscape paintings hung against the opaline walls. I had wanted to closely examine them every time I visited the club and learn the names of the artists, but I could hear my mother’s scolding refrain in my head. Don’t look around too much. Pretend it’s nothing new for you. Once we reached Aunt Cindy, she greeted us with a hug wide enough to envelop both of us. We made frowny faces at each other when we talked about her mini Labradoodle, who was recovering from a broken leg. Then Vince and I moved on to Uncle Kevin, who had just made an investment in a new golf simulation start-up. He raised his eyebrows when I asked whether he had stipulated dilution protections in his term sheet. I could tell that Vince’s energy was waning when his cousins, who were applying to law school, pestered him for the contact info of the tutor he used for the LSATs. I stepped in with, ‘You guys are smart enough to get into Yale without one.’ That slapped a sheepish grin onto each of their eager faces. I felt high on adrenaline. I was hitting particularly well today. Every laugh, every smile was another point scored. When Vince huddled with his Aunt Liesel in the corner – no doubt discussing her son, who had OCD and only ate white foods – I went to take a breather in the bathroom. These events were a marathon, not a sprint. I had hoped for an empty Ladies’ Powder Room, but almost ran into a woman as I rushed through the door. I’d forgotten that the Briarcliff bathrooms had attendants. Flustered, and in an effort to regain my composure, I took a handkerchief from the basket swinging under her arm. Her polite face broke for a second, and then she said, ‘Sure.’ Fuck. I was supposed to take the handkerchief after I used the bathroom and washed my hands. I wetted it in the sink and patted it against my forehead, trying to play it as if I had meant to cool myself off all along. I stole a peek at her in the mirror. She had pulled out a book. Relieved that I hadn’t held her interest, I went into the farthest stall. I put down the toilet lid and engaged in an illicit activity: cell phone usage. I scrolled through my Steinway & Appleton emails – the last-minute changes to disclosure schedules, the latest drop of documents into the data room that required diligencing – and calculated the hours I’d have to bill tonight and tomorrow. Saturday and Sunday. I had only been working at Steinway & Appleton for a year, though it felt like three. Oliver called it baptism by fire. My parents hailed it as a lesson in eating bitterness – success required sacrifice. Vince wanted me to leave. After a double all-nighter, he warned, ‘You keep going like this, you’re going to get an ulcer.’ I had just noticed that a partner placed my name ahead of a second-year associate’s in the cc field of an email – was it a mistake or his subtle way of praising my work? – when a text message took up the screen. It was from my father: Hi. Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. (that’s Lao Tzu) He had recently moved on from English self-help books – most of which were recommended by his coworker – to Chinese philosophy. For the last five years, he had been sending me corny quotes. The first twenty had been all different iterations of the life is too short mantra. Still, I appreciated that he was trying. Evolving. Somehow, these books and quotes persuaded him to rein in his temper. He hadn’t lashed out at me since high school. Of course, Vince knew nothing about my father’s earlier outbursts. If he did, he would have a different opinion of him. Even worse, he would see me as a victim. Given his limited knowledge, Vince was actively supportive of my father’s ‘commitment to vulnerability and self-realization work.’ He even gifted him a Brené Brown book last year. When I got irritated at receiving random quotes from my father, Vince would remind me that those phrases gave him the vocabulary to express his love in a way that he hadn’t been taught in China. There was real truth in that, something I’d never considered. The bathroom door opened and I heard a group of ladies come in. ‘There’s only three stalls?’ one said. Break was over. My shift was starting. After washing my hands, I passed the attendant again. This time, I held out the inside of my wrist for a spray of perfume and took a mint. Vince was alone in the great hall, one elbow on the marble mantelpiece, chewing his fingernails. When he saw me, he pulled me in for a quick kiss. ‘Firm still standing?’ he said with a wink. ‘It’s less stressful if I know what I’m facing later.’ He took my hand in his and stroked it with his thumb. ‘What we’re facing. I’ll stay up with you. Get a head start on next week’s voter suppression briefs.’ ‘You’re the best,’ I said. I had met Vince during our freshman year at Harvard. I hadn’t been particularly interested when he came up to me in our Rise and Fall of the Third Reich class, until he said, ‘Someone said I had to meet you.’ That someone was Oliver. My Oliver. The glow from Vince’s shiny, pre-vetted halo was dazzling. ‘What’d Oliver tell you about me?’ I asked. ‘He said that you were perfect.’ I wasn’t perfect, but Vince was. A Greenwich kid but you would never know it. He biked around Cambridge, pronounced croissant with a hard t even though he was fluent in French, and lived on the half-off-after-six ready-made meals at the grocery store. I didn’t know he came from money until months later, when I met his family. ‘My parents are rich, but I’m just me,’ he had said after our twelve-course meal with them at Per Se. Generations of Van Fleets went to Stanford Law School, but he gave that up to join me at Harvard’s. His father wanted him to go down the law firm path like I did, but Vince insisted on working at the ACLU. Holding hands with Vince felt like donning a shield. Everyone – including my parents – loved him. Respected and admired him. He was the validation of my own worth. A signal to others that I must be good because someone extraordinary loves me. ‘Vince! Tammy!’ His mother waved us over to the club’s lounge. In a leather armchair next to a lamp with a pleated silk shade, she detailed the next family trip: Iceland, complete with a helicopter ride to see the northern lights. Before I dated Vince, the only places that I had vacationed with my family were the Jersey Shore and Washington, DC. Now it was shopping on the Champs-Élysées, New Year’s fireworks outside the Sydney Opera House, and safaris in the Serengeti. ‘We requested an office space at the hotel,’ his mother said to me. ‘In case you have to work. I know how it stresses you out sometimes.’ She gave me a small smile. I looked away, tears at the corners of my eyes. I had another family. Later that night, after five hours of reviewing supply agreement contracts, I brushed my teeth and slid into bed beside Vince. ‘Did you have a good time at the club?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said, already feeling a heaviness in my eyelids. ‘Peak and pit?’ This was Vince’s daily question. A tradition he wanted to pass on to our children, he had said. The rote quality of it annoyed me, but I played along. Vince would remember my highs, even simple ones like the mac and cheese at the Whole Foods hot bar, and made sure to add more of that into our lives. And he would try to fix any lows that I announced. He had spent hours last month researching fermented foods to help with my lingering IBS. His thoughtfulness papered over his predictability. ‘My peak was hearing about the Iceland trip and my pit was when your Uncle Robbie asked me where my parents were from,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I’ve always wanted to see the auroras. You know, when I was little, I dreamed that –’ ‘Wait – what’s wrong with my Uncle Robbie?’ Vince had been there. It had happened during appetizers. It was my first time meeting his Uncle Robbie. He overdid the self-tan on his meaty face and kept rotating the chunky ring on his finger – Choate Rosemary Hall, class of 1975. He shoved two lobster puffs into his mouth, but side-eyed the edamame salad. ‘You like these beans or peas or whatever they are?’ he asked me. ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but I usually only have them at a sushi place.’ ‘Is that where your parents are from? Japan?’ he said. ‘My parents live in New York.’ ‘Scarsdale,’ said Vince. ‘Right next to Yorktown. Practically your neighbor, Uncle Robbie.’ The old man didn’t look convinced. ‘What was wrong with the old stuff they used to serve? When did everyone become too good for deviled eggs and mini burgers?’ Vince sat up on the bed. ‘Come on, Tammy. He didn’t mean anything by it.’ ‘Sure,’ I said, closing my eyes. I had come to bed to sleep, not fight. ‘He was just curious. He wanted to get to know you.’ Now I sat up too. ‘Then why didn’t you say that my parents are from China? That I’m from China? Why’d you say Scarsdale if you thought he was just being “curious”?’ ‘I was taking your lead. I could tell you were uncomfortable.’ ‘I don’t need backup,’ I said. ‘Maybe I would understand why you’re being so sensitive if you told me more about your childhood.’ ‘You’re bringing this up now? I’m freaking exhausted,’ I said. But I knew he was right. To Vince, I was Tammy from Scarsdale. Harvard Tammy. Lawyer Tammy. I had been those versions of myself for so long that I sometimes forgot that I had ever been lived-in-a-basement-in-Flushing Tammy. Or even further back: foreign-born Tianfei. The only people who knew those prior versions of me were my parents and Oliver, and I saw no need for that to change. Vince kissed me on the shoulder. ‘Why don’t we do a food tour of Flushing next weekend?’ ‘Why? It’s so dirty there.’ ‘Because it’s part of you.’ ‘Just because I lived there doesn’t mean it’s “part of me.” You don’t even know me.’ Vince’s face fell. His big eyes watered and drooped at the sides. I felt like I had just smacked a puppy on the nose. ‘Tammy,’ he said, slowly, as though he were mustering up the courage to say something that he had been holding back for a while, ‘I love you. I want a life together, but I don’t know how to get you to let your walls down. I need you to let me in.’ ‘I want to,’ I said, staring at my hands. I wanted to so badly, but how could I share something with him that I hadn’t quite figured out for myself? A history that I often blacked out. How could I tell him that my mother named me after a skinny blonde woman who won a car on The Price Is Right? Or that when my teacher let it slip that my legal name was Tianfei – which wasn’t half as bad as Bong Mee or Wang – my classmates made slanty eyes and said, ‘Ni hao, my name is Tofu.’ Or that my father, for the gentle soul he was now, used to hit me across the face? I didn’t even realize that I was crying until Vince held me and said, ‘Shh, it’ll be OK. We’re going to be OK.’ I kissed him, softly at first, and then more vigorously. ‘I love you,’ I said, pulling his shirt off. ‘I love you more,’ he said, slipping his hand in my underwear. I could barely feel anything. I ground against him and bit his ear, trying to signal that I wanted it rougher. But he didn’t get it. He never got it. Losing my patience, I pushed him back on the bed and grabbed his c**k. It was already hard. I climbed on top and slid him into me. He held on to my breasts with both hands. A few minutes later, he was telling me to go slower. ‘Baby, I’m going to come,’ he said. I only moved my hips faster, hoping for a release or at least to get this over with. After he came, his eyes searched for mine. I clenched the walls of my v****a to pretend that I did too.