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Min looked at the twins in the rearview mirror. They nodded back convincingly. Clinton or Mr. He has no idea what it means to be Republican. They got along because Sandra could make the smallest encounter in a grocery store into a story with a beginning and a middle and an end, and Min liked to listen. Sandra reminded Min of her mother, who, though widowed young, had never lost her fondness for storytelling, and had always been quick to laugh.
When the twins were in kindergarten, their teacher had chastised Min. When the girls read together, they acted out each page with more liveliness than Min could offer. Now, over coffee, Sandra recounted Election Night. Something was wrong with it, I thought. But the more I worked on it the worse it looked. Then Chuck came in, and I heard him yelling. He said it was early and he wanted to watch TV with his dad.
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Let him stay up and celebrate with me. Neither she nor Rich, her husband, had discussed the election results; neither had lost a moment of composure. Min had never revealed to Sandra that Rich was a Trump supporter. Chuck owned a company that dealt in cleaning supplies, a business that had been in the family for three generations. Rich, who had grown up in a poor neighborhood in Beijing and who had long ago given up his Chinese name, worked at a tech startup.
Each man would think that the other deserved little respect. Was there any good in sharing with Sandra that both their husbands had been among the twenty per cent in their county who had voted for Trump?
Humiliation would not bring people closer. Sandra said that she had called Chuck a bigot to his face, and he had called her an equally bad name.
Min had not called Rich anything denigrating. He had married her because she was not the kind of woman who would use strong words. They had talked about the election only once-these days, their conversation rarely ventured out of the safety zone of children and grocery lists and holiday plans. Rich had made a long, fervid speech in favor of Trump, and when Min had simply said she was going to vote for Clinton he had called her brainwashed.
It was unkind of her to wish an old man a speedy death.
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Min quickly said something about a novel she was reading and how she wished she could strangle a character in it. That was a poor lie. Sandra would have pressed more if not for her own trouble. The man who would not stop writing to Min had, in a way, been responsible for her marriage, but whenever this thought occurred to her she would remind herself that nobody had forced her into marrying Rich.
Min was nineteen when she first met the man, who had been introduced to her as a potential father-in-law. He was a linguistics professor at a prominent university in Beijing, and he had three sons in America. She had attended a vocational school that trained girls to become secretaries.
After graduation, she had worked in a department store. America, Min could see, was alluring to her mother. After his death, Min and her mother had lived frugally on the money her mother made running a newsstand. Min had once had a brief schoolgirl crush, but she had never dated.
She was good-looking-not in a striking way, but she had a classic look, like a figure in a Ming-dynasty painting or a period movie, her shoulders narrowing compliantly, her neck long, her complexion clear, her eyes and nose and mouth arranged in a pleasing manner.
Min had grown up thinking she was born into a role as a flawless daughter, and someday she would become a flawless daughter-in-law, wife, and mother.
No one was perfect, she knew, but women in books and films often seemed flawed in a meaningful or attractive way. Perhaps they all lived in giant doll houses. Some, like the dolls that belonged to Emmie and Deanna, had complicated life stories, with many plots and dramas and excitements.
Others were like the only doll Min had had when she was young-a little creature made of hard plastic, with unbending arms and legs connected to a torso through ball sockets.
Min had carried the doll around dutifully, but she had never made up a story for it.
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The only catastrophe that had befallen the doll had occurred on a winter night. Min had left it on a windowsill, and a power outage caused the temperature in the apartment to drop.
The one-legged doll remained in her possession. Min did not remember ever feeling sad about the severed limb. A doll was a doll.
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She had not been a sentimental child. Left alone with the man, Min did not know what she was expected to do to earn his approval. He looked like a professor from a film, with his wire-rimmed glasses and impeccably parted silver hair. When he asked her questions, he used words her father would never have used.
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What do you do to maximize your potential? When she did not know what to say, he said that the process of enlightening and perfecting oneself was like rowing a boat up a river. She had never heard of the textbooks, and the man, looking at her over his glasses, told her that if she wanted to go to America she should start studying English right away.
The man moved next to her on the sofa and opened the second book in the series. Perhaps he had been acting only out of fatherliness, she tried to convince herself afterward. He had left the books with her and insisted that she call him the following weekend. Instead, he told them that his son would come home for a summer visit, and then the two young people could properly meet.
Min never made the call. They did not have a telephone at home, and she hated to use public phones. Even when the professor expressed an urgent wish to talk with her through the matchmaker, she remained silent. After a few weeks, she was able to pretend that she had never met the man, whose fingers had lingered on her arm for a moment too long when he had said goodbye.
Not diligent or smart enough for his intellectual family. This verdict had been conveyed to her mother by the matchmaker. He had mellowed over the years.
Their eldest child, Max, had grown up with a more unforgiving and volatile father, and right after college Max had moved to Singapore. Min did not feel his absence keenly, though she thought that as a mother she should have done better at missing him. She had had Max at twenty-one, and the motherhood that had come too early had turned into a blur over the years. Can you love a person without liking him? Max and Rich had a fraught relationship, but they viewed the world similarly.
For both, failing to calculate the price of every move in life was a character flaw; not taking advantage of someone else was a sin. Sometimes Min pitied her future daughter-in-law, whoever she was, and wished that the girl could have chosen more wisely.
Min knew that Rich meant everything he said. Assets would be transferred back to China, to avoid alimony; custody of Max would be fought for. But what kind of mother would so readily give up a child? Motherhood was like one of those contracts that were automatically renewed. As long as you did nothing, a charge would show up on your credit card. A preparation for the children to excel in the real world.
Emmie stuck her tongue out. Abruptly Min stood up and went to the kitchen, where she rummaged through the refrigerator as though she had forgotten something.
On the counter there was a bottle of wine that Rich had brought home earlier, reading the label to her and telling her the price; he wanted something special, he said, when a couple of friends came over on Saturday to celebrate the election. She thought of nudging the bottle off the counter. He would tell the girls to go to their bedroom if he wanted to yell at her.
She would say it was an accident, and he would say no one believed that, and, even if it had been an accident, it was unforgivable. He would say something else, but they would be cut short by Emmie, who was not as good as Deanna at waiting out a storm.
Why are you guys arguing?
Emmie would say, and Rich would try to soften his voice and say that they were having a grownup discussion. About what? Emmie would say.
About the fundamental difference between us, Min would answer. Attraction is good but you can become attracted to just about anybody if they treat you well enough! Where has focusing on facial features and dick size gotten black women? The less those [redacted] achieve, the more low class our criteria has become. You cant have the women of a race requiring more than the men of the race can provide.
The best way to keep the race going, is to keep the womens vetting process in tune with the mens ability to achieve. The diet has left me feeling a little less energetic but nothing to bitch about. Diet gets cut again next week and cardio doubles. As soon as I think I have it, it changes lol. Advocate for black women finding love across color lines. Creator of The Pink Pill.