Mar 20 2010
The Compact
by Michael Davidson
Chapter One
Inside the loop, south of downtown, live husband and wife, both from South Korea. Houston is their new home, and, understandably so, English isn’t easy. They talk at night, before sleeping they speak in their native tongue, breath redolent of kimchi and sticky rice as they exchange words, ideas, sentiments for one another, for this strange place they’re living in. In this way, their love coats itself. Becomes resilient.
I’m only aware of the façade, the cleanliness. The way husband and wife appear. There’s more going on underneath, a kind of suffering, the same suffering that comes with visas and periods-of-stay. I’m certain of this daily struggle even though I’ve visited their nest dozens of times and haven’t so much as gotten a glimpse into their private chamber. Their bedroom behind closed door. I’ve only seen their immaculate common area. Never changed, no signs of life. No creases on their sofa or crumbs on their table. Their bedroom can’t be so sterile, so clean. Their bedroom is where they live.
What’s in there, I sometimes ask myself. I ask, Are they keeping something from me. Pictures of family maybe. Relatives precious to them, too far away to see except through photos. Do they have any books in there, I ask. Korean characters etched into their pages: familiar, comforting, a reminder of where they came from, who they are. Will always be. What about recordings of them graduating, the husband being whisked off to serve in the military, compulsory, despite his big head, an easy target? What about videos of their marriage, couple leaning against each other, leaning and not knowing where they’d be in a year? What’s in there, I ask. I ask, Will they ever let me see.
They haven’t just yet. All I’ve been privy to is their living room and kitchen. Their dining room outfitted with table, salt and pepper shakers, calendar from the cleaners. All I’ve been privy to is the unblemished exterior, their mask, so to speak. But maybe this has more to do with me. Truth is, I haven’t tried to gain access into more of their nest, at least nothing beyond the common area, nothing behind the white doors in their hallway. I don’t even know how many rooms are back there. I could find out easy enough. Just ask if I could use their bathroom. I really have to go.
But no, I’ve been the perfect guest as far as I’m concerned. Knocking softly, smiling and saying how are you upon entering, saying yes please when the husband offers spring water, sitting down at the table when he points with his hand – palm facing me, fingers together – and leaving an hour and twenty minutes later with a twenty-dollar bill in a University of Houston envelope. Payment for my services.
Come spring, Devin promises me, all this’ll change.
Chapter Two
Whenever I’m lost, in need of help, direction. Whenever I forget where I’ve come from, who I am, where I need to be getting to. I resort to the same fix, the compact in my pocket. Always reliable. Pointing the way when the way isn’t obvious. At least to me. Ever since mom packed up her things and left, leaving only one of her belongings behind by accident in the most conspicuous of all places: the bathroom sink, at the bottom of the basin, her compact. Plastic and green.
When I came home from high school, tired, hungry. On that day many years ago and found the note that mom had written, smeared where a tear might or might not have fallen, the first place I traveled to, maybe to check and make sure my only mom really was gone, was their bathroom, mom’s and dad’s.
I opened the drawer, the one that used to be hers, crammed with mascara, bobby pins, brushes, rouges, cotton balls, and nail polishes, lipsticks and scrunchies. That is to say, messy with the paraphernalia that painted her, held her together before going out and dancing. Interacting with the world she called hers. I opened this drawer looking for a sign that contradicted her note, expecting this sign. But there was none. The drawer rattled on its railing in agreement with her words. Empty. Gone.
Devin wanted to cry on that day many years ago. I knew that he would’ve shed tears in the mirror above the sink, he would’ve turned red and puffy. He would’ve balled. Then I would’ve had trouble breathing afterwards. Had a headache to relieve with aspirin. But I made an effort to keep my face down, the fear too strong inside me, afraid of my new reality, afraid of the pimple on my forehead. Mom, I said. I said, Mom, did you really leave.
Part of me was happy for her. She’d be better off now, away from dad. That man who had grown distant, fallen out of love, went so far as to bring another woman, a brazen coquet, over for a dinner that mom had cooked. This, along with other instances of unfaithfulness, was recorded in mom’s note.
But that was no excuse to leave me, her only child, her only son. I said that then, and I say it now, when I’m reminded of the way she abandoned me. After all, I was still young – going on sixteen – still needed her, required maternal care. Dad wouldn’t have home-cooked food on the table, my favorite chicken, my favorite rice. Dad wouldn’t wash my clothes, keep the apartment respectable looking, fragrant smelling, everything more-or-less ordered and in its proper place. Dad was a man.
The note told me quite plainly that she loved me, that I meant the world to her. The world. But dad and his ways had stifled and hurt her, kept her from being happy, and her life only went on as she wilted alone in this apartment, unloved and aging. She had to do something for herself. She deserved more. I asked myself then, More than me. I asked, I wasn’t enough, the world wasn’t enough, mom.
Yes must’ve been her answer to my questions because she had already packed her bags, left. No consulting me beforehand, no arrangements to see her son in the future, in some foreign city far away from dad. No, she had left me in haste. Leaving only her compact behind. The last remnant of mom. Other than her note.
Chapter Three
On the outside, it was just a green case, plastic. However, when opened, a brush to apply rouge sat snug on the bottom, mirror on top. The rouge, above the brush, was packed tightly, worn all the way to a silver surface in the center from use. As for the mirror, wasn’t scratched. Mom had taken care of her compact, immediately erasing any smudges with a tissue and keeping it in her purse, out of harm’s way. I had seen her looking into it quite regularly, checking her cheeks and blotting her lips before we left the apartment or the car, after she exited a public bathroom.
On that day many years ago I didn’t look into my reflection above the sink, but I did look into the mirror on mom’s compact. Devin was there. He’s always in mirrors.
When I heard the front door open, I tucked my findings into my pocket, away from dad to take, now my only parent. Went into my room and closed the door. Dad was on his cell. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because he spoke in whispers. Normally he converses with the volume on high. Neighbors have complained.
I remember sitting in my room on that day many years ago, lost. I opened mom’s compact, looked into the mirror, at my reflection inside the square, and saw Devin. The afternoon sunlight came in through my window and refracted into Devin’s brown eyes, illuminating the planes on his face, lifting the curtain to show his eyes burning, luminous. It was the first time I had seen Devin’s eyes in this state, two embers. Since then I’ve come to adore and respect them when they contract this quality.
Dad whispered some more, I could barely discern an I-love-you-too before a goodbye. He wasn’t talking with mom. Mom was gone.
I gritted my teeth, feeling something fierce on par with hatred. Aware of my next move, I snapped mom’s compact shut, put it in my pocket, and listened to the enemy conduct his after-work routine. Refrigerator opening closing. Beer cap removed. Glugging. Sound of empty bottle hitting counter.
Dad walked into his room, ignored my door, and burped. After pissing, he found her note on the bathroom floor, where I had left it on purpose after looking into mom’s compact. Although he read it to himself, I could hear his voice reciting mom’s words as his eyes scanned from left to right. The last part, the part about loving me, about me meaning the world to her, he skipped. He crumbled the paper, threw it away. Later burning her note after finding it underneath his pillow.
I had recovered it in the trash can and put it there. A reminder of his adulterous ways.
The next night, his twenty-year-old girlfriend at the time found the same note underneath her pillow when she slept over in spite of the flames dad had subjected it to.
Devin told me to make copies, still too young to do worse. But, for a boy my age, his design was wicked enough, a heap more wicked than the small-time pranks he had me execute in the past, because there were consequences now, and those burning eyes.
When I heard them arguing that night, when I heard this silly redhead, a student of his, they were always his students, accuse him of missing his wife, of lying about how little she meant to him, exclaiming, Why else would you keep her note under your pillow, you bastard, I was in my room relishing the moment, a kind of vindication for me and mom. Maybe this was why I had her compact open: to let her partake in our victory. But it wasn’t mom I saw framed above the brush and rouge. It was he who lives in mirrors, Devin, my little devil.
Chapter Four
The stoplight turns redtogreen. The person behind honks three times. I let him wait. Honk to his heart’s content. When he flashes his brights, perhaps thinking I’m deaf, I put mom’s compact away and continue driving down Almeda Road. Spring weather in Houston, unpredictable, today it’s steamy, sunny, all my windows down. Tomorrow it might cool down, warm up, rain until it floods. Or it might stay the same.
As expected, the stoplight at the next intersection turns red. I pound the steering wheel with the fat of my palm and mutter threats between my teeth. Recently elected mayor supposed to do something about this problem from what I understood. That was on his agenda according to the sources, coordinate Houston’s traffic lights. Make certain the green-phase is synchronized on city streets. Make driving a more pleasant experience. But this mayor has been in office several months already and I don’t see a change.
Driving is still miserable in Houston.
I look at the time. The minute hand getting on towards seven thirty. I got off work a half hour ago. After eight hours of ringing up mostly unpleasant customers, shelving newly acquired books already put in the system, and inspecting used books before making a decision on whether to buy or decline, I’m ready to go home and indulge myself with a beer. Watch a movie, read a novel, before going to sleep and waking up to a berserk alarm clock. Do it all over again. But it isn’t yet time to do what I want. No, I’m still on the clock as far as I’m concerned.
Every Thursday at 7:30 PM: tutor Big Head.
With my car parked, I knock on the door of apartment 1624, the home of the Korean couple. It requires another knock till I hear an inner door close and a pair of socked feet coming towards me. The husband opens halfway, realizes who it is, and invites me in with a smile and nod of his big head.
I don’t see his wife. Truth is, I’ve never seen her. I’m only aware of her through pictures over the mantel of their fake fireplace. Husband doesn’t talk about her. Not even when I force the issue, asking how his wife is doing today. He pretends to be flummoxed by my question. Giving his big head a confused expression.
But I know she exists, the pictures confirm this, especially the glamour shot taken after their wedding, the one with husband and wife propped against a stonewall, probably cleaned for this shot, still dressed in tuxedo and gown.
Not only that.
The door down the hallway with the light shining through the crack between carpet and wood: she’s in there. I’m certain she’s in there – their bedroom – behind closed door, presumably sitting at a prefab desk or lying on their bed. Hard at work.
I wonder if she’s wearing any clothes in this spring heat.
Chapter Five
As is always the case, I wait for the husband to extend his arm – palm facing me, fingers together – and offer me a seat at their dinning-room table with the salt and pepper shakers, calendar from the cleaners.
I accept, wait for him to fill a black coffee mug with spring water. He asks me if the temperature is too hot in the apartment. I read the thermostat from where I’m sitting. Set at eighty. Outside it has to be close to ninety, this sweltering metropolis. No-no, I say. I say, I’m alright, unless you’re hot.
He doesn’t hesitate to shake his big head, smile. If his smirk isn’t in response to the hint of sweat on my brow, to the way the back of my shirt sticks to my skin from excessive perspiration, I’m not sure what he’s reacting to.
He hands me my water and sits on the opposite side of the table. His mug is flowered, in its usual place in front of him, already filled with spring water. He takes a sip. Suddenly, his big head goes crimson and his shoulders start. Water sways inside his mug, some leaping up. Settling on the table. On the tip of his nose.
He promptly cleans the spills with a napkin, embarrassed by his mess. I want to ask what’s wrong. Other than some footsteps on the landing of his apartment there are no sounds.
No scratching or knocking. No preparation of keys to unlock his front door, barge in.
Moreover, as far as I can tell from my seat, nothing happened inside apartment 1624, at least nothing within the pristine common area. I listen to the front door opposite Big Head’s open and close. The footsteps outside go silent.
It might’ve come from down there, I think. I think, Whatever disturbed him had to have come from down there, referring to the well-kept mystery of their private chamber.
I lean back in my chair, keep hold of the table edge, tilt my head until I see down the hallway. It’s dark in the tunnel, veering to the right at the end, a whole new wing.
Don’t know how many doors are in this section nor what rooms they open into, another bedroom maybe? My curiosity strengthens, forcing me to imagine.
Down the hallway to the left, I see what I always see, their bedroom door, closed. Light shines out of the crack at the bottom, between carpet and wood. I assume his wife is behind this door, the wife I’ve never seen in person. Working over the desk. Or maybe on their conjugal bed. Again, I wonder if she’s clothed.
The husband doesn’t appear to be bothered by me snooping around. Truth is, he seems almost pleased at my curiosity. The crimson has subsided in his big head. His shoulders are collected.
He says that I look tired from work. He doesn’t know anything about me. Must assume that I work by the dead look in my eyes, the same look that resides in all bookstore managers: near-sighted.
I sip my spring water and say, I am. Big Head’s all smile.
Today I go over these topics, he says, voice laden with accent, his intonation awkward. But that’s why I’m here, to improve his spoken English. Ok, I say, always obliging.
He moves a ream of papers from his side of the table to the center, close enough for me to see the bold title capitalized on the top page. English Literature, it scans. Ignoring the prompts, he says, I read very interesting article over weekend. I correct him, patience in me: You read a very interesting article over the weekend, Yes, about Perry Mason, you hear of that. I correct him again, then ask, The TV show.
He’s unclear on what I mean by this, leans his big head across the table, turns his better ear towards me. I see into its recesses. I say, You mean Perry Mason, the lawyer, Law-yer, Yes, is that what you’re talking about, I ask. Nah, he says. He says, Not on television, i mean Perry Mason.
I shake my head, still registering the name of that show dad used to watch while mom did dishes. I ask if he could write it down. He reluctantly positions his pen over the page and tries to vocalize one last time before admitting defeat to English.
Permason, he says, determination making him speed up his pronunciation, cramming together into one jabber what used to be two words.
Big Head waits for recognition in the skin around my mouth. My tongue. But I remain blank. Confused to the point of growing red faced, fuming from my bull nostrils, jumping from my seat onto the table and wringing his stump of a neck for being so damn stubborn. Just write it down, I think. I think, Just write it, you idiot, or I’ll fuc, but the husband saves himself before I can finish my thought.
He scribbles Free Masons in barely legible print.
::Keep it locked on TOE::
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