Paper Names

Chapter 2-1

9

Oliver

1999

Oliver was in his office when his phone rang. It was the immigration law firm.

‘She won’t fit into any of the loopholes,’ they said.

‘Nothing else you can do?’ he asked.

‘Sorry.’

‘But her visa expires next month.’

‘We know.’

‘Alright,’ he said and hung up the phone.

He had tried his best. He had hoped to keep her in the country. He even called the senator he’d met during a golf round-robin last year.

He punched in Daisy’s number. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he practiced. The contrition in his voice sounded ugly. Almost feigned. Was it? Did he actually care that she had to leave for the Philippines? Startled by the thought, he hung up before the first ring.

Daisy was his earliest memory. He had been around three or four when he learned how to open the freezer door. Within minutes, he ate five fudge Popsicles under the kitchen table. Daisy dragged him out by his feet and scolded him, half laughing at the chocolate on his chin. Then his mother came home, toting a rolled-up yoga mat. He remembered backing away from the door. A cold burn hitting the top of his head – a mix of fear and brain freeze. Daisy met his eyes. She wiped his mouth with her shirt, stuffed the plastic wrappers down her b*a, and went to wash the dishes at the sink. His mother hadn’t noticed anything – she kissed him on the cheek and told him that he smelled good. ‘Salamat,’ he whispered to Daisy. Thank you.

When he had a tennis match, Daisy was always in the stands with containers of brownies and cubed pineapple. She had taught him how to ride a bike, and then later, how to drive – automatic and stick. When he left for college, he promised to call her once a week. He kept that up for half a semester. Now he only talked to her when he visited his parents, which was once every few months. He still loved her, but more in his memories than in his present life – her role had grown obsolete.

His hand was still on the phone when the screen lit up, blinking green. Someone was calling him. His secretary picked up and mouthed, It’s your father, through the glass pane between them. Oliver knew what he was calling about. His father had been ringing his landline and cell phone, leaving message after message over the past week, and was now resorting to trying his office line.

It had been two years since Oliver had declined to sponsor his grandfather’s petition for a compassionate release. His father had done it instead, but the judge ruled against it. Every few months, his father dogged him about changing his mind. ‘We need to get creative. Give the judge an excuse to grant the petition,’ his father had said in his latest voice mail.

Oliver shook his head at his secretary and motioned: Tell him I’ll call him back tomorrow. Anyway, it was already past 6:00 pm on a Wednesday – the only evening he left work early, blocking off any meetings or client dinners. He had someplace to be. In fact, if he didn’t leave soon, he’d be late.

But because the walls in the offices of Steinway & Appleton were made of glass, he had to first apply the appropriate window dressing to his office. On the one-floored panopticon, almost every lawyer could keep tabs on each other, see who was working and who was slacking, and that kept everyone busy, or at least outwardly so, typing away on their computers, flipping through paperwork, and juggling phone calls.

The panopticon used to be a popular prison format. The idea behind it was that it made the inmates feel watched at all times, even if no one was, which effectively compelled them to behave. Recently, most correctional facilities had abandoned the design, with activist groups calling it inhumane and degrading.

Oliver shuffled his papers across his desk, propping one over his keyboard as if he were in the middle of reading it. He draped his Burberry coat over the back of his chair and strategically placed his double canopy umbrella at the front corner of the desk. He had perfected the display that said, I’m probably still in the building, visiting a partner’s office, maybe getting coffee, or running out for a quick dinner, but obviously, I’ll be back to work soon. No one passing his office would think that he had checked out for the day.

It began to rain as he set foot on Lexington Avenue. He tried to flag down a cab, but after a series of occupied ones zoomed past, he gave up and bought an umbrella from one of the corner stands. He considered the fifteen dollars as a levy for his performative diligence. The wind kept blowing the umbrella inside out as he walked all the way from Midtown East to The Rosewood. He put his wet clothes into the laundry basket and took a hot shower. Afterward, he scarfed down leftover sushi from the weekend. The rice had gone hard and the tuna smelled fishy, but he drowned it in soy sauce and numbly ate it.

He put the kettle on the stove and took out a box of shortbread cookies. He’d been teaching Tammy piano for over two years, and they always started each lesson with hot tea and a snack. It had become the most consistent ritual in his life.

At seven o’clock on the dot, the doorbell rang. When the eleven-year-old came in, she immediately grabbed a cookie, polishing it off within seconds. He wondered how often she was allowed to have treats. She looked so skinny.

‘How’s the new house?’ he asked. The Zhangs had moved from Flushing to Westchester the week before.

‘Sucks. It’s ugly and it’s near the highway. I still can’t fall asleep at night,’ she said, taking another cookie. ‘And the landlord said no dogs allowed.’

Oliver had seen a picture of the house. Drab yellow siding and a lawn full of rocks, but just within Scarsdale township limits. ‘You’ll be going to a great school though,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Your dad must be happy.’

‘My dad’s never happy. He’s always stressing about something. A promotion, our green card, my grades. He’s already talking about how much he wants a bigger house in the center of town, and this time, he wants to buy it. Who cares so much about a house?’ She ran her tongue over her neon-pink braces, digging out lodged crumbs. ‘I’d rather be in Flushing. I miss my old friends. My new classmates only care about the color of their Coach purses.’

Oliver wondered if this was Tammy’s convoluted way of pining for a designer purse. A tactic that past girlfriends had used.

‘We could go shopping for one together,’ he said. ‘It’d be your birthday present.’

‘I’d rather die.’

Her spunk and comedic timing tickled him. He choked on a mouthful of peppermint tea, spilling some down his shirt. She lifted her eyebrows and smiled – delighted by his reaction.

‘So what would you want for your birthday?’ he asked.

‘A car.’

‘Would a convertible be good enough?’ he joked.

‘Any car is freedom,’ she said, peeling off the price sticker on the cookie box.

They went over to the piano. After forty-five minutes of Mariah Carey songs, Tammy closed the lid.

‘You nailed the chord progressions in the second section,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I practiced.’

‘I’ll see you in two weeks?’

‘When you’re in Bali, you should learn the lyrics to her songs. We can sing together.’

‘You don’t want to hear me sing,’ he said.

She met his eyes when she said, ‘I do.’ The funny thing was, he believed her.

Oliver waded in an infinity pool overlooking the treetop canopies of Ubud’s jungle. In the breeze, the leaves moved together in one giant, serene swath. A visual lullaby. He sipped on an overly sweet cocktail as Janna wrapped her legs around him, cuddling him like a koala. Her long hair fanned into the water. ‘Didn’t I tell you that Bali was romantic?’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.

He squeezed her a*s. Bali was really wonderful, he had to give her that. Bali was no London or Florence or Ibiza – it was better. The past nine days felt like an escape to another world. Nature reigned the island with organized chaos. Motorbikes zipped down the dirt roads, unburdened by traffic signals. Wild monkeys dashed along the walking trails, stealing muffins from tourists. Mangoes dangling from the trees dropped at random, making for either a free snack or a blow to the head. Down a narrow, crowded street of small shops, vendors sold local beer brand T-shirts, bright batik-patterned sundresses, and brass figurines of Hindu gods. Inside an open storefront, Balinese women ground chilis and garlic with a mortar and pestle while children cleaned mangosteen and snake fruit. They operated in their own world, working in sync without much talk – an unaffected grace, a communal ease.

The next day, they skipped the resort buffet and ventured out to a vegan café that a girl from their sunrise yoga class had suggested. Every customer was white. ‘Australians,’ he said to Janna, picking up on their accents. The menu was avocado-everything and acai bowls. As he finished his latte, he stayed quiet. Not confessing to Janna that this had been his favorite meal.

On their way back to the resort, a Balinese woman in a pink dress with a green sash across her waist grabbed his hand. She turned it over and traced a crease up his palm. ‘A forked fate line,’ she said, ‘the potential for two lives.’ He leaned forward, keeping his hand in hers. Her comment hit too close to home.

‘Really?’ he said. Her eyes locked with his – intense, shining with a light of knowing.

As he leaned in, she gave him a Cheshire cat grin. ‘Do you want a reading? Only twenty dollars.’

After shaking her off, he walked in a daze. The palm reader was obviously a fraud, but how could she have known to say those words to him? Was it painted all over his face? He wondered who else could see. The plastic cup holding what remained of his iced coffee perspired in his hand, dripping water down his arm.

‘Oh my God, what’s that?’ said Janna, turning around.

A thin, auburn-colored dog was following them, l*****g the trailing drops of water from Oliver’s cup. It cowered at the sound of Janna’s voice, but kept trailing them, hesitantly, at a distance.

‘She must be thirsty,’ he said. He mimed to the local man peddling ice cream on the street and gave him five dollars in exchange for a bottle of water.

‘How do you know the dog is a she?’ said Janna.

Oliver shrugged. ‘She looks pretty. Like a fox.’

The dog was still outside the resort the next day when they left for their jet skiing excursion. And she was there waiting for them by the front gate when they returned.

‘Wow, this pup must be in love with us,’ said Janna.

‘Probably,’ said Oliver. Dogs were attracted to kind people. People who they recognized as leaders and protectors.

Then Janna said, as if it were as casual as buying a pair of shoes, ‘Maybe we could adopt her.’ She stroked Oliver’s hair. ‘She’d be like a trial run for us.’

This was one of Janna’s better ideas, ulterior motive or not. A story that could work for him. He went away on vacation and came home with a beautiful stray dog from a third world country. A dog that was clearly a mutt, couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a golden retriever from a puppy mill. He’d bring her to a vet to cure her various parasites and fix up that patch of red skin on her leg. Give a shaggy street dog her forever home.