Jess Row - Your Face in Mine

Of course. Enough said.

Listen, I say, and I hate to bring this up—

Then don’t. Not here.

Okay.

We stare at each other for a moment. The house uncannily silent: a whispery hiss from the dishwasher, a low murmur of voices from down the hall. I’ve forgotten this: the quiet of the aftermath, the depth of stillness children leave in their wake.

Fine, he says. You might as well go ahead and say it. Just keep your voice down.

It’s just a question. Have you thought about how you’re going to tell her? How, and when?

Why? Do you have some advice on that subject?

Of course not.

Then why ask?

I guess I’m wondering if you have a plan.

A plan for what? If she divorces me?

That’s not necessarily where I was going, I say, but yeah, okay. The possibilities. The possible consequences. I mean, she’s not going to take it lightly.

She won’t divorce me.

You’re sure of that?

Look, he says, Robin’s an extremely subtle thinker. Number one. She’s been through all this identity stuff, critical race theory, race and the psyche, race as a social construction. That’s more or less all she did in college. And she’s accepted that the story of my background, biologically, is totally unknown. It’s not as if I’ve invented fake ancestors.

But you have. Of course you have. I mean, you look , you’re designed to look, like a black man. No one would ask you to take a DNA test to figure that out.

The way I’m going to present it to her, he says, is, look, it was so traumatic, it was such a psychic break, that I repressed it for a long time. That is, I repressed my former self. And in any case, I haven’t even gotten to number two. Number two is that Robin Wilkinson does not believe in divorce. She’s one of those Dan Quayle Was Right people. She’d go almost as far as to say that the only reason for divorce is physical danger from the spouse. She’s told me, outright, that she won’t divorce me if I’m unfaithful.

Are you joking?

You’d be shocked, he says. She plays a good white-liberal game, no doubt, but underneath that she’s basically Pat Robertson. At least when it comes to the black family.

Okay. Okay. If that’s true. Even if that’s true. What’s the harm in telling her now? We could use her, among other things. She could help us prepare the ground.

Prepare the ground for what? Do we have a plan, Kelly? You haven’t even told me yet what you thought of the RIDS paper. I’m assuming that’s just being polite.

The paper’s a start. It gets you thinking along the right lines.

But?

Well, it wasn’t written for me.

That matters?

I lean across the table, dropping my elbow into a pool of harissa without noticing. Martin, I say, speaking in a hoarse whisper, look, I was there . I need an honest accounting. I can’t tell this story otherwise. I can’t make sense of it myself. You have to understand that.

He closes his eyes.

I went through this already, he says, his lower jaw easing forward, the lips drawing back and showing me a perfect row of white teeth, piranhalike. I went through this shit with Dr. Silpa. He put me through my paces . I edited that part of my life. You understand what that means, don’t you? I was sure you’d understand.

In that RIDS paper you’re asking people to look at you as a specimen.

I think I’m cool with that. I’ve thought about it. I’d rather keep it superficial. Fuck it, like the pregnant man, right? Let them think of me as a freak. The real story doesn’t lend itself to sound bites, and anyway, it’s unnecessary. We need to come up with something that fits in tight little paragraphs, something anyone would buy. Not my story, per se. An ur-story.

If I believed that I’d have quit a long time ago.

Look at you, he says, being all caped crusader. Woodward and Bernstein. Or, what is it, Orson Welles? You’re looking for my Rosebud?

Martin, I say, seeing stars, or what I imagine to be stars, little pinpricks swimming like amoebas in my peripheral vision — how can you say that? How can you fucking say that?

He holds up his hands, palms flat: a trainer ready to catch my punches.

Jesus, you’re sensitive, he says. I thought the whole Alan thing would be water under the bridge by now. I thought you’d have resolved it, one way or another.

I’m startled to find my eyes leaking tears.

What’s to be resolved? I ask. What, was there a note I didn’t get to read? Something you want to tell me, Martin?

Fine, he says. All right. You want the whole story? Forget that RIDS nonsense. That was just a feeler. I’ve got the whole thing for you in a box. On tape.

What do you mean, tape ?

Tapes. DATs. Microcassettes. I wasn’t systematic about it. But it’s all there — nearly. Back when I thought I could write it up myself. I used to get up at five in the morning and go down to the rec room and just, I don’t know, narrate . For an hour or so at a time. Everything I told Silpa. And more.

Well, shit, I say, with a little laugh, I’m glad you’re telling me this now. While I still have access to a studio.

Why do you think I hired you in the first place? He slaps me on the shoulder. That’s a joke.

And then what? I just transcribe, and that’s it?

Of course not. You’re the journalist. You get to shadow me and interview me and all. For clarification. And for, you know, the personal stuff. There’s things I never recorded because they wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me.

And me. And maybe Alan.

Right. And so you’ll understand what I’m telling you: don’t take notes, all right? Just, you know, internalize it. If it doesn’t sound right I’ll tell you later, when I read the book. Just hang out.

Okay, I say, with an inward sigh. What kind of relationship is this? I suppose I’d like to ask. But how can you ask that question without asking, what kind of person is this? There’s a principle at work here, but I can’t wait for it to reveal itself, can I?

Okay, I say, okay, boss.

Boss? I’m your boss? Then we should make it official, shouldn’t we? He gets up and disappears into another room for a moment, and jogs back, holding a leather portfolio. How is it that you’ve let this go on so long? he asks, scribbling a check. Without a deposit or anything? Remind me to give you a lesson in negotiating sometime. This is just a retainer, okay? Let’s call it the first month’s pay. Tell me if it sounds fair to you.

I hold out my hand for the check as he passes it across the table, like a playing card, and read the number, $20,000, in one fluid motion, opening my wallet and slipping it in.

My advice is to open a new bank account, he says. Online. Do it as a wire transfer. Use only your initials. HSBC is good, or Credit Suisse. There are tax reasons, but we can talk about that later. I’ll call you tomorrow. We have to set up a schedule. And I’ve got to dig out those tapes.

My breathing feels unnaturally loud; or maybe the room has become quieter; or maybe we’ve been waiting all this time for a door to close down the hall, for Robin’s footsteps. What is this for, exactly? seems the obvious question. What am I worth to you? But the silence, an almost prayerful silence, closes in around us, and I say nothing.

Don’t worry, he says. His face has spread out into a grin, nostrils flaring, eyes jumping: money has come into the room, with its rustle, its electric crackle, and it excites him, shamelessly. It’s almost infectious. My wallet, thrust into my front pocket, glows like an orb, a radioactive pellet. This is only a taste, all right? he says. Trust me. You’ll get used to it. It’s all a matter of seeing things on a different scale.