cold cuts. I make a concerned face.
“I am supposed to go to my husband’s parents’ place in Texas for Christmas,” she says. “I can’t go, can I? I’ve found photos of the woman and their secret e-mails. She’s waiting for him, right now, in Malaysia.”
I stand and stare at Anke and recall that her husband is an American engineer. “Well,” I say and glance at my slices of cheese on the white counter. “Well.” The problem is, I don’t know Anke. There was a time when I wanted to. All fall, really, when I was trolling for friends. But Anke has always seemed distracted. I have a feeling that today Anke could use more than a three-minute talk about her marriage in the April Gourmet deli line. “Christmas can bring out the worst in people,” I finally offer and then can’t believe how trite I sound.
“I’ll snap, won’t I?” she says and looks away. “If I go to Texas, I’ll snap?”
“Probably,” I answer and look her in the eye. She seems jumpy. Unstable. She keeps looking around and smiling.
“Isn’t this a great store?” she says quickly. “Today I’ve bought arugula and these nice tomatoes.” She holds up her plastic basket for me. “But if I don’t go with him,” she says, “and I let him take the kids to the States without me, the lawyer I just talked to said I might never see my kids again. That he could keep my kids in Texas with his parents forever.”
“Where’s your own family?” I ask and turn to fully face her. “Where can you go with your kids and get away from him?”
“I’m a nomad,” she says. “We just move around. Tom’s job moves us around. I go wherever he goes. My mom lives in Amsterdam.”
“Can you go to your mom?” I ask. “You should go to your mom.”
“I think Tom’s abusive,” Anke says then. “Mean to the kids and always yelling at me. You know, I suspected him all fall. He kept telling me I was imagining it.”
Anke has a five-year-old girl named Anna and a two-year-old girl whose name I don’t know. I’ve got my cheese now and I step out of line. “Please call me. I can help if you need it. If he gets abusive. Really. Call me.”
“I will,” Anke says, and she seems happier now. I wonder if she’s on tranquilizers. I would be if I thought Tony was going to leave me alone in Beijing with two kids for a woman he’d taken up with in Kuala Lumpur.
The last thing Anke tells me is about a place she knows in Beijing where you can get a great martini. It’s right above the best foot massage place in town. “You’ve got to go,” she says and hugs me. “The very best drinks.” Then she smiles that smile. “I have three days to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.”
“Call me if you need me,” I say again and meet her eyes, then I walk to the counter with my basket of lunch meats.
When I get back to the apartment, Aidan and Thorne have set the table with bowls and Tony has made a broccoli soup. We eat together in the dining room and I eye Tony over my bowl. So much of our time in China so far has been about laying grounding wire—figuring out how to buy apples and salt. Learning how to pronounce Chinese verbs. I’m not sure how I would describe our marriage. It’s certainly a partnership, but there are long stretches here where it doesn’t feel romantic. Instead it feels like we’re running a small overnight camp for American boys in Beijing.
And what am I really doing here? I want to ask Tony. He is out slaying corporate dragons, hiring a staff and meeting with the heads of some of the world’s largest banks. I am trying to write every day, but it’s hard to get my mind to settle. Maybe the astrologer was right. Because it feels like Saturn may be casting a long shadow. I’ve been avoiding my desk. I once taught an adult writing workshop in Boston. The informal title of the class was “Ass in Chair.” No one in the group had written in years. I kept finding myself explaining that there’s never any
“I am supposed to go to my husband’s parents’ place in Texas for Christmas,” she says. “I can’t go, can I? I’ve found photos of the woman and their secret e-mails. She’s waiting for him, right now, in Malaysia.”
I stand and stare at Anke and recall that her husband is an American engineer. “Well,” I say and glance at my slices of cheese on the white counter. “Well.” The problem is, I don’t know Anke. There was a time when I wanted to. All fall, really, when I was trolling for friends. But Anke has always seemed distracted. I have a feeling that today Anke could use more than a three-minute talk about her marriage in the April Gourmet deli line. “Christmas can bring out the worst in people,” I finally offer and then can’t believe how trite I sound.
“I’ll snap, won’t I?” she says and looks away. “If I go to Texas, I’ll snap?”
“Probably,” I answer and look her in the eye. She seems jumpy. Unstable. She keeps looking around and smiling.
“Isn’t this a great store?” she says quickly. “Today I’ve bought arugula and these nice tomatoes.” She holds up her plastic basket for me. “But if I don’t go with him,” she says, “and I let him take the kids to the States without me, the lawyer I just talked to said I might never see my kids again. That he could keep my kids in Texas with his parents forever.”
“Where’s your own family?” I ask and turn to fully face her. “Where can you go with your kids and get away from him?”
“I’m a nomad,” she says. “We just move around. Tom’s job moves us around. I go wherever he goes. My mom lives in Amsterdam.”
“Can you go to your mom?” I ask. “You should go to your mom.”
“I think Tom’s abusive,” Anke says then. “Mean to the kids and always yelling at me. You know, I suspected him all fall. He kept telling me I was imagining it.”
Anke has a five-year-old girl named Anna and a two-year-old girl whose name I don’t know. I’ve got my cheese now and I step out of line. “Please call me. I can help if you need it. If he gets abusive. Really. Call me.”
“I will,” Anke says, and she seems happier now. I wonder if she’s on tranquilizers. I would be if I thought Tony was going to leave me alone in Beijing with two kids for a woman he’d taken up with in Kuala Lumpur.
The last thing Anke tells me is about a place she knows in Beijing where you can get a great martini. It’s right above the best foot massage place in town. “You’ve got to go,” she says and hugs me. “The very best drinks.” Then she smiles that smile. “I have three days to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.”
“Call me if you need me,” I say again and meet her eyes, then I walk to the counter with my basket of lunch meats.
When I get back to the apartment, Aidan and Thorne have set the table with bowls and Tony has made a broccoli soup. We eat together in the dining room and I eye Tony over my bowl. So much of our time in China so far has been about laying grounding wire—figuring out how to buy apples and salt. Learning how to pronounce Chinese verbs. I’m not sure how I would describe our marriage. It’s certainly a partnership, but there are long stretches here where it doesn’t feel romantic. Instead it feels like we’re running a small overnight camp for American boys in Beijing.
And what am I really doing here? I want to ask Tony. He is out slaying corporate dragons, hiring a staff and meeting with the heads of some of the world’s largest banks. I am trying to write every day, but it’s hard to get my mind to settle. Maybe the astrologer was right. Because it feels like Saturn may be casting a long shadow. I’ve been avoiding my desk. I once taught an adult writing workshop in Boston. The informal title of the class was “Ass in Chair.” No one in the group had written in years. I kept finding myself explaining that there’s never any
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