Authors: Suki Kim
The Interpreter (10 page)
“Mr. Park and his wife, over in the South Bronx; I never knew their first names.”
So he had known her parents. He’d worked for them five years ago, which must have been right around the time of their death. This man here, with stubby fingers and swarthy face, had seen Mom and Dad every day. It should not surprise her. The Korean community is not big, after all. Many workers passed through the store in the South Bronx during the eight years in which her parents owned it. Turnovers seemed unusually frequent. When Suzy asked Dad why, she was told to stay out of their business. They had bought the store the year Grace went away to college. Before that, they kept changing jobs almost every year. Neither of her parents stuck to one job for long. One of them always got fired for one reason or another. With each new job came a move. Sometimes the relocation made the commute easier for her parents. But more often, they moved for no reason whatsoever. The family never stayed in one address for longer than a year. It was as if they were on the run. From what, Suzy had no clue. Once they bought the store, things calmed down a bit. They moved less often, although by then both girls had moved into dorms at Smith and Columbia. Suzy was surprised that her parents had saved enough money to buy a store finally, and was even more shocked when Mom told her about the brownstone in Woodside, Queens. They closed on the house soon after she ran off with Damian. Suzy never got to see it.
Now the questions have moved on to the store Mr. Lee currently owns. Suzy translates with mechanical efficiency, as though each question simply filters through her, each word automatically switching from English to Korean.
“How many employees are there in your store total, including both day and night shift?”
The ADA is looking through his notes. Suzy wonders why he asks such questions, when the answer must be right at his fingertips.
“Seven, including myself.”
Mr. Lee is no longer thinking about Suzy’s parents. He’s back in his own fruit-and-vegetable store on Grand Concourse, where the underpaid illegal immigrant workers must be slaving away twelve hours a day, seven days a week, much the way he has been doing since he arrived in this country.
“Can you name the workers and their responsibilities, along with their salaries, weekly or bimonthly, however they are paid?”
So the issue at hand must be the violation of the minimum-wage law, for which countless Korean store-owners have come under scrutiny lately. Some have been forced to shut down, some so bombarded with back payments that they deteriorate into bankruptcy. Suzy has served in several depositions brought on by the union. She once overheard the lawyers gossiping about how the Labor Department has been tightening its watch, something about the elections coming up and the mayor needing a new shakedown. “Get them behind bars or back in their own country,” one lawyer chortled, imitating the mayor, known for his tough-man act.
Mr. Lee is rounding up the names now. Jorge, Luis, Roberto, inevitably Hispanic names. The hierarchy becomes even more marked. The white prosecutors, the Korean store-owners, the Hispanic workers, and Suzy stuck in between with language as her only shield. He is now producing the record of all payments, scrawled in ink, for workers are always paid in cash. Of course they are. How many of them actually have working papers or even bank accounts? How many are legal in this country anyway?
Suzy is desperately hoping that the questions will go back to five years ago, back to when this man had worked for her parents, while they were still alive, while they were still swearing to disown her. But the ADA is zeroing in now. This is the moment the investigation has been leading up to.
“No benefits, no sufficient evidence of pay, no adequate vacation
or sick days. Have you, Mr. Lee, been exploiting these illegal immigrant workers?”
or sick days. Have you, Mr. Lee, been exploiting these illegal immigrant workers?”
The questions become more accusatory as they drag on, well into the late afternoon. When the assignment lasts this long, which must mean something serious, it is the interpreter who tires the most. The ADA only asks, and the witness answers accordingly, but the interpreter must do both, must keep her ears open at all times. Mr. Lee says nothing in return, and James Richards lets out a deep sigh, twirling the pen faster. Each question takes her a bit longer to translate. She is beginning to slow her words. They have been doing this for over three hours.
“Can you describe to me again the ways in which you hire and fire your workers?”
He has asked that before. The answer could only be just as tedious. Through word of mouth, Mr. Lee will say, through acquaintances I find them, and I let the worker go when he’s not good. How predictable, such a question, such an answer. So, instead, Suzy makes up her own question, surprised even as the words escape her lips.
Five years ago, you said, you worked for people who are now dead. Can you describe to me what happened to them?
Mr. Lee casts a quick glance at the ADA’s face, as if slightly confounded by such a turn of questioning. But he appears unsuspecting and gazes at the wall as if reaching back to five years ago, which is exactly what Suzy wants to see.
“They were killed. I had stopped working for them by then, been fired, actually. I only heard about it later. It was all over the Korean news.”
Turning to the ADA, Suzy repeats the same response Mr. Lee had given previously. Her heart is pounding. She cannot stop herself. She is being guided by an impulse that is beyond her. James Richards nods, as though he’s been expecting such an answer. Undeterred, he continues. “Mr. Lee, when a new employee
is hired, do you offer him a set amount of time for training?”
is hired, do you offer him a set amount of time for training?”
Training, what a useless question. These jobs don’t require sophisticated skills. Just strong muscles and a willingness to sweat for a bit of cash.
Instead, Suzy asks,
What was the nature of the murder?
What was the nature of the murder?
Mr. Lee answers grumpily, “They said that it was some sort of a random shooting. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t. I shouldn’t talk this way about the dead. But that Park guy, he had it coming to him.”
Mr. Lee does not notice Suzy’s face turning pale at his last words. She needs to register this information quickly, discreetly. She faces the other and gives him what’s been answered before. Yes, she tells him. Yes, for about a week, all the new worker does is watch how the work gets done and do whatever the others tell him to do.
James Richards sees nothing. He is setting up the next question. He seems to be moving toward his mission: get them behind bars or back in their own country. The evidence is all right here in this terrible man who cheats on those illegals who should be sent back to their country immediately. What’s the INS doing?
“Mr. Lee, can you describe the manner in which a worker is fired at your store? Do you offer him unemployment benefits?”
What does he think a fruit-and-vegetable market is? A Wall Street office? A nine-to-five, suit-and-tie job? Does he actually assume that working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, comes with that kind of privilege? Does he believe that the same rules apply to those who don’t have the right papers, don’t speak a word of English? Does he believe that the American dream is that easy? Unemployment and health benefits? They were never designed with these immigrant workers in mind. No one, not even the owners, have those!
So, instead, Suzy asks,
What do you mean? What makes you believe that the shooting was not random?
What do you mean? What makes you believe that the shooting was not random?
Mr. Lee spits out the answer, as though the whole business is distasteful to him: “He had friends in all sorts of places. He and his wife, they were up to something.”
It is clear that the man is not enjoying these questions. What had her parents done to evoke such strong feelings?
James Richards is patient. He keeps on. He wants evidence. Not those scribbled notes the man has brought with him, but a record, a receipt, an invoice, none of which seem to exist.
“Mr. Lee, how would you notify your worker when he is being fired?”
But Suzy barely hears his question as she asks instead,
Why did they fire you?
Why did they fire you?
Mr. Lee’s face reddens a little, as if he cannot control the sudden rage as he recalls, “That Park guy had it all planned. He owed me two months’ pay, so he decided to throw me out instead. He looked as though he could kill, the way he screamed what a lazy lout I was, so I walked out. I took off my apron, which they made me wear for the work around the salad bar, and just walked out. Of course he never paid me, and I didn’t pursue it. I knew I didn’t want to mess with him. I’d seen what happens to guys who stand up to him, like this delivery guy out in Queens, Kim Yong Su I think his name was. Man, was he really screwed by that Park guy! Let me tell you, half the Korean community didn’t exactly shed tears when they heard about his death!”
It is hard to keep her composure, but Suzy must try, improvising an answer as long as the heated monologue. She repeats what Mr. Lee had said earlier, about firing a worker when he’s not good. She repeats it a few times to make up for the length. It actually works, this repetition, and discourages the ADA from poking into what is quite simple and obvious.
“I understand,” the ADA is pleading now. “I can see how you fire your workers, but tell me again about the hiring process; is there any contract which you or your employee enter into, a written contract, I mean?”
A written contract? Has he forgotten that no one, neither the one who does the hiring nor the one who is hired, speaks, never mind reads, a word of English?
Suzy turns to Mr. Lee without meeting him in the eyes. She is afraid that he will see the resemblance, find her father’s face in her lowering gaze. She is afraid to ask further.
Tell me, who do you think was responsible for their death?
Mr. Lee snickers as he barks, “The brave one. Someone so righteous that eliminating them would’ve been a necessity. Even the police wouldn’t touch the case. Random shooting, my ass; what idiot would believe that?”
Suzy believed, and Grace. Or maybe they wanted to believe.
Turning to the ADA, she tells him no, no written contract, no such thing. It is shocking how she manages to maintain her calm through all this. It is shocking how easily she lies.
James Richards appears exasperated at last. The questioning is going nowhere, or going so smoothly that his answers will haunt the trial as falsifying evidence.
“I am asking you one final time, Mr. Lee, are you claiming that you have always paid your workers the minimum wage?”
Suzy translates the last question quickly, wanting to be done with this.
“Yes,” Mr. Lee shouts back with a vengeance. “You can see from all the record.”
He’s lying. He has clearly broken the minimum-wage law. It’s her instinct. An interpreter knows almost instantly when a witness is lying. She is the most astute listener in the world. She listens between the lines, between the words. Nothing goes unnoticed. The first time Suzy interpreted for a lying witness, she
was surprised how much it hurt. It happened at a trial, before a judge and a jury. Suzy stumbled, causing the entire room to stare at her. An interpreter must be neutral, and anonymous. It is not up to her to make judgment. Except the bitterness was on her tongue, and Suzy was not sure if she would be spared with her heart intact. Afterward, she could not help noticing that it was the lying party that won.
was surprised how much it hurt. It happened at a trial, before a judge and a jury. Suzy stumbled, causing the entire room to stare at her. An interpreter must be neutral, and anonymous. It is not up to her to make judgment. Except the bitterness was on her tongue, and Suzy was not sure if she would be spared with her heart intact. Afterward, she could not help noticing that it was the lying party that won.
But now Suzy wonders how much of her averse reaction might be due to his confession about her parents. She repeats his answer, which fools no one.
Shaking his head, James Richards declares that the questioning is over. Closing his file, he tells her what a great job she did. Knowing two languages so well, that cannot be easy, he says. You need to interpret not only the words, but every nuance, don’t you? Yes, every nuance, Suzy replies.
Every goddamn nuance, so I might know much more than I was meant to.
Every goddamn nuance, so I might know much more than I was meant to.
It is Marcos who leads them out at last. The corridor is a maze. Suzy wants to lose Mr. Lee in its tangles. He’d hated her parents, although, according to him, there are more, many more people out there, who hated her parents even more passionately than he did, who hated them enough to risk everything in their bravery, their righteousness, whatever he declared was the motive for wanting them dead. She is dying to get out of here. When Mr. Lee calls after her “Thank you,” she runs past the door without looking back.
Kim Yong Su, the guy from Queens. Where has she heard that name before? Where has she met him?
“SUZY, MY DARLING, you’re looking way too ravishing for an old maid!”
Caleb is grinning when she opens the door. She has not seen him in a few months, not since he started his first nine-to-five job at a gallery in Chelsea. “A bitch shopping mall,” he whispered on the phone after the first week of working there. Caleb at twenty-six, much changed from the shy art-school graduate Suzy met outside Astor Place Stationery. He’s let his hair grow out, gentle ginger waves down to his shoulders. “It’s the Botticelli look,” he tells her with a wink. “The curator adores it, and those Eurotrash buyers keep saying ‘divine’ in their phony accents.” She pours him a glass of red wine while he looks around the apartment as if expecting to find an improvement since the last time he was here. “Suzy, my God, we need to get you a subscription to Martha Stewart, fast!” Suzy laughs and gives him the warning look, which he once said reminded him of his great-aunt, if he had one. When he finally sits down before her,
Suzy remembers how nice it is to have someone here. Another person sitting with her, listening to her voice, to her breath, to her silent walks around the kitchen. It’s been so long since anyone’s stepped into her apartment. She has almost gotten used to being alone.
Suzy remembers how nice it is to have someone here. Another person sitting with her, listening to her voice, to her breath, to her silent walks around the kitchen. It’s been so long since anyone’s stepped into her apartment. She has almost gotten used to being alone.
“So the admirer strikes again!” Caleb points to the irises in the Evian bottle.
“It’s that time of the year, remember?” Glancing at the drooping petals, Suzy realizes that she should throw them out.
“No, I didn’t remember, but obviously
somebody
has.” He takes a sip of wine from the glass, still looking at the irises. “So any idea who’s the anniversary freak? I mean, it’s grossly old-fashioned, and getting a bit creepy too.”
somebody
has.” He takes a sip of wine from the glass, still looking at the irises. “So any idea who’s the anniversary freak? I mean, it’s grossly old-fashioned, and getting a bit creepy too.”
“Maybe I’ll never know, maybe I’m not meant to.”
Suzy opens the plastic bag he handed her upon entering. Inside are small yellow balls with glimmering surfaces. The bag is filled with all kinds of cheese wrapped in cellophane. Blue cheese, goat cheese, Brie, Gouda, Swiss, Stilton, even fresh mozzarella. “What’s all this?” Suzy turns to him, her black eyes wide.
“Call me the cheese fairy; oh no, that sounds
so fag.
” Caleb chuckles, happy to see Suzy’s face brighten. “I would’ve gotten you crème brûlée, but gallery openings don’t do desserts, since you know the art groupies don’t eat, and there’s nothing close to a pastry shop on Tenth Avenue.”
so fag.
” Caleb chuckles, happy to see Suzy’s face brighten. “I would’ve gotten you crème brûlée, but gallery openings don’t do desserts, since you know the art groupies don’t eat, and there’s nothing close to a pastry shop on Tenth Avenue.”
Leaning over, she kisses him on the cheek and then begins unwrapping the cheeses onto a plate, one by one. “Blue cheese is good,” she says without looking up. “It’s sad somehow, almost melancholy. I can never eat it, really.”
“Darling, I don’t think you’re getting laid enough. When a piece of cheese in Saran Wrap makes you cry, you know it’s time.”
“Michael’s coming back soon.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I never know until the day before. He doesn’t know himself usually.”
“Oh,
please
, let him feed that one to his wife.”
please
, let him feed that one to his wife.”
It is true. Michael never knows his schedule. Suzy has no doubt about it. But she does not protest when Caleb rolls his eyes. It is more fun that way, to pretend that the man who is cheating on his wife is also cheating on his mistress. Michael left three messages today. He sounded irritated, impatient, the way he gets when she is not where she is supposed to be.
Hey, pick up the phone, I know you’re there.
Then,
Suzy, pick up the fucking phone, where the fuck are you?
Suzy, pick up the fucking phone, where the fuck are you?
Finally,
Suzy, babe.
Suzy, babe.
She’d left the court by four, but did not arrive home until half past six. She had not planned it. It was an impulse. She was on the Number 4 train, a downtown express from the Bronx, forty minutes maximum. The familiar drone announced Grand Central. Change here for the 5, 6, 7, and the shuttle to Times Square. Watch out for the closing door! It was the Number 7 that stuck out at her. Flushing-bound, passing through inner Queens, which she used to take to visit home from college. She got out almost automatically. Grand Central. A little past five in the afternoon. Its crowd heading to Metro North instead of the Long Island Rail Road, to upstate New York, the mountains and rivers instead of the ocean. Grand Central was more civilized, its corporate-sponsored orchestra playing Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. The fresco of constellations on its vaulted ceiling shone in lime green with freckles all over, as though these comings and goings made sense, a divine sense. It must make the commuters feel better, to rush along with the universe hovering above. That’s why Suzy preferred the drab Penn Station, where a commute remained a commute, a train a train, nothing more, nothing even remotely artistic or celestial.
Soon she was back on the platform, the Number 7 train
platform this time. She could get out at different stops on the Number 7, which would lead to the various neighborhoods where she grew up. Queensboro Plaza, 46th Street, Jackson Heights, Junction Boulevard, and Woodside, although she had never seen the house there. The Number 7 line is for immigrants, the newly arrived immigrants, the ones they call FOB, fresh-off-the-boat, the ones who have to seek out their own kind for a job, a house, everything foreign in this new land. Hardly any whites on the Number 7 except for their seasonal outings to Shea Stadium, and blacks favor the 2, 3, 4, 5, the lines bound for the Bronx and Brooklyn. The Asians rule on the Number 7, mostly Chinese, many Koreans, some Indians, few Hispanics. Even the subway regulations on the steel door are written in Chinese.
platform this time. She could get out at different stops on the Number 7, which would lead to the various neighborhoods where she grew up. Queensboro Plaza, 46th Street, Jackson Heights, Junction Boulevard, and Woodside, although she had never seen the house there. The Number 7 line is for immigrants, the newly arrived immigrants, the ones they call FOB, fresh-off-the-boat, the ones who have to seek out their own kind for a job, a house, everything foreign in this new land. Hardly any whites on the Number 7 except for their seasonal outings to Shea Stadium, and blacks favor the 2, 3, 4, 5, the lines bound for the Bronx and Brooklyn. The Asians rule on the Number 7, mostly Chinese, many Koreans, some Indians, few Hispanics. Even the subway regulations on the steel door are written in Chinese.
When Suzy hopped into the last carriage, there weren’t many people at all, despite rush hour. Immigrants keep different hours. Nine-to-five is a luxury. Rush hour is only relevant to the commuters with desk jobs. Suzy slouched in the empty seat in the middle, not knowing where she planned to go, why she got on to begin with. There was a couple sitting opposite her. A pair of high-school sweethearts, a willowy Chinese girl with shiny braces and bell-bottom jeans leaning in the arms of a Hispanic boy with a pimply face and a diamond stud in his left ear. Times were different now. You rarely saw couples like that when Suzy was growing up. Hispanic boys never looked at her. They might have checked out Grace, but they still wouldn’t ask Grace out—not because they thought she was a bitch, which they might have, but because they just didn’t do that. Different racial groups didn’t mix. In fact, a war was often declared between rival groups. One school would be dominated by the Chinese kids. In another, Puerto Ricans were the bad and popular ones. The mood was multicultural, certainly, but all it meant was that there were fewer white kids, and the rest just stuck to their own.
Suzy and Grace moved schools too frequently to really grasp any of it; Grace often broke the taboo, although, for the sort of boys she hung out with, nothing was much of a taboo.
Suzy and Grace moved schools too frequently to really grasp any of it; Grace often broke the taboo, although, for the sort of boys she hung out with, nothing was much of a taboo.
Once the train glided out of Manhattan, it emerged into the open, no more tunnels, no more underground darkness. The sudden sunlight was ruthless. The sallow faces of the passengers became too visible, and the faded graffiti on the walls appeared sad and past its glory. Outside revealed the uneven surface of Jackson Avenue, the first stop in Queens. The gray buildings crammed against the pale-blue sky, and the interweaving highways jutted forth in confused directions. The first stop she recognized as one of her past neighborhoods was Queensboro Plaza, but it was merely a stop, a place where they had lived for less than a year, like all the others. She barely remembered it. Soon the train passed another. But there was no reason to get out, no real recognition that sank into her heart. Woodside was next, where her parents spent their last days. But this was no homecoming. Homecoming didn’t happen on the Number 7 train. When it pulled into its final stop in Flushing and all passengers scattered out, she noticed a man still sitting opposite her. His hand was pointing at his open fly. She quickly averted her eyes while he got up and walked sluggishly to the next car. Suzy sat motionless in her seat, dreading the long return trip back to the city.
“He’s only thirty, a baby really.”
Caleb is now telling her about his new boyfriend, whom he met two months ago. He left the man from the West Village last year. “It just fizzled out. We were like roommates after the first year. He spent all his time trading stocks on the Internet, and I got sick of crying for his dick, which wasn’t much to begin with, really.” Suzy admires Caleb’s way of downplaying everything. She knows that he suffered after the breakup. She knows it was his first love.
“I’m thinking of bringing Rick home for Thanksgiving. I mentioned it to Mom the last time I called her. You know what she said? The phone goes dead for like five minutes, and then she comes back in this super-snotty tone, ‘Must you do that?’ Can you believe it?
Must you do that!
Sounds almost British, doesn’t it? My mom, the queen of the Japs! She suddenly turns British ’cause she might have to meet her son’s gay lover!”
Must you do that!
Sounds almost British, doesn’t it? My mom, the queen of the Japs! She suddenly turns British ’cause she might have to meet her son’s gay lover!”
Suzy stares at Caleb as he chatters away. His parents have finally come around, not fully still, but trying. It’s taken years, but he is talking with them—not every Sunday, not as his therapist had once suggested, but talking. She enjoys Caleb’s stories about his parents. She pretends that it is she who is fighting with her parents, who insists on bringing Damian home for Thanksgiving, who sits here telling whoever how ridiculous, how silly her parents are.
She sips the wine. It’s tart. It tastes of half-ripe raspberries.
“So have you found out if your sister gets a bouquet also?”
Caleb changes the topic, as if sensing Suzy’s mood. He pours more into his glass and also into hers, although she has barely taken a sip.
“No.”
“Does she not talk to you still?”
Suzy shakes her head. Grace, she meant to call Grace today. She wanted to check if Grace had also heard from Detective Lester, if she was also summoned. But Suzy has changed her mind. She has decided to wait until tomorrow morning, when Grace will be gone to school, when she can safely leave a message without having to confront her on the phone. Suzy is afraid of the chilly silence. She is afraid that Grace may just hang up on her. Right after the funeral, right after Suzy moved out of Damian’s house, she had tried calling Grace a few times. She wanted to explain, although there was really nothing to explain. She wanted to talk about their parents, anything that might
have happened during the past four years of her absence. Anything at all. But Grace hung up each time. Soon Grace stopped picking up the phone altogether. The message was clear: Grace did not want to speak to Suzy. With each year, it became clearer that Grace intended
never
to speak to Suzy.
have happened during the past four years of her absence. Anything at all. But Grace hung up each time. Soon Grace stopped picking up the phone altogether. The message was clear: Grace did not want to speak to Suzy. With each year, it became clearer that Grace intended
never
to speak to Suzy.
“She’s family. This will pass. It can only pass.”
Suzy is comforted by Caleb’s optimism, although she does not believe it. The thing about newer friends is that they have so little reference. You might give them the synopsis of the life you’ve led up until the point when they met you. But it doesn’t quite sink in, not really. How could it? Your past is only a story for them.
“I don’t think she’s ever liked me.”
She did not mean to say it. Why say it? The truth might even stick and become truer.
“Why do you think that?”
“I just do,” Suzy whispers, sharpening the end of the cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. The ashes fall, and the flame comes alive. Suddenly the orange-red tip of the cigarette looks almost transparent.
With Mom and Dad gone most of the day—sometimes through the night, depending on their job of the moment—the only one Suzy had was Grace. Yet they were never close, never comrades. It is impossible to tell why. It wasn’t even jealousy. Sure, Grace was better in many ways, prettier, smarter, and often wiser. But jealousy would only happen if the sisters were willing to engage with each other. No, their distance has had nothing to do with jealousy. There has never been any room for warmth between the two. They had different friends. Grace knew boys; Suzy didn’t. Grace’s favorite book was
Moby-Dick,
which Suzy gave up after trying the first few pages, bored and confused. Grace had a life outside school. Suzy could not even fathom where she would go. They shared bunk beds always. Grace on
top, because she said that she didn’t want anyone seeing her when she was asleep. When she was not whispering into the phone with one of her many secret boyfriends, she would disappear up there and read. Grace was always reading. Even when Dad got drunk one night and ripped down her posters of Adam Ant and Siouxie and the Banshees, Grace did not flinch but climbed up to her bed with a book. When she was grounded for being found naked with a boy in the back of a car, she repeated, “Sorry, I’ll never do it again,” with not a hint of regret on her face, and read for a month straight. She read just about anything. Novels, newspapers, sometimes even the Sears catalog or a copy of the neighbor’s
TV Guide
. She would flip through them for hours, which seemed unfathomable. Suzy once made the mistake of buying her a book and spent most of her allowance of twenty dollars for a new edition of
Anna Karenina.
Suzy could not decide what to pick at first, but she thought that the cover looked mature and that Grace might like the fact that it had originally been banned in Russia. It also looked promising that the volume was impossibly thick, like
Moby-Dick.
Grace, though, was hardly grateful. She handed it back to Suzy without a word. When Suzy began protesting, Grace said quietly, “I don’t want you choosing my books.” They were only about fourteen or fifteen then. That was the first time Suzy suspected that it wasn’t about books after all. Grace’s obsessive reading might not have had anything to do with books. It didn’t matter what she read, as long as she was left alone. Reading was a refuge, a shield, an excuse to avoid facing the family, and Grace would not let Suzy be an accomplice.
Moby-Dick,
which Suzy gave up after trying the first few pages, bored and confused. Grace had a life outside school. Suzy could not even fathom where she would go. They shared bunk beds always. Grace on
top, because she said that she didn’t want anyone seeing her when she was asleep. When she was not whispering into the phone with one of her many secret boyfriends, she would disappear up there and read. Grace was always reading. Even when Dad got drunk one night and ripped down her posters of Adam Ant and Siouxie and the Banshees, Grace did not flinch but climbed up to her bed with a book. When she was grounded for being found naked with a boy in the back of a car, she repeated, “Sorry, I’ll never do it again,” with not a hint of regret on her face, and read for a month straight. She read just about anything. Novels, newspapers, sometimes even the Sears catalog or a copy of the neighbor’s
TV Guide
. She would flip through them for hours, which seemed unfathomable. Suzy once made the mistake of buying her a book and spent most of her allowance of twenty dollars for a new edition of
Anna Karenina.
Suzy could not decide what to pick at first, but she thought that the cover looked mature and that Grace might like the fact that it had originally been banned in Russia. It also looked promising that the volume was impossibly thick, like
Moby-Dick.
Grace, though, was hardly grateful. She handed it back to Suzy without a word. When Suzy began protesting, Grace said quietly, “I don’t want you choosing my books.” They were only about fourteen or fifteen then. That was the first time Suzy suspected that it wasn’t about books after all. Grace’s obsessive reading might not have had anything to do with books. It didn’t matter what she read, as long as she was left alone. Reading was a refuge, a shield, an excuse to avoid facing the family, and Grace would not let Suzy be an accomplice.
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