Diana Abu-Jaber - Birds of Paradise

“Yeah, exactly. We’ll go mainstream with it.” Stanley looked so pleased, his smile so wide and bright, Brian almost didn’t have the heart to keep going. But he had to — there was a crucial point to be made. “So you’re identifying a need and positioning yourself to fill it?”

“That’s right.”

“But if you do that…” Brian brought his fingertips together, let them slide the length of his fingers, interlacing. “Don’t you, of necessity, end up hurting the majority of people? Meaning the poor and lower middle classes? The ones who couldn’t afford the beautiful, clean food in a nice store like yours — and who’d be too anxious — too intimidated —to go into a place like that in the first place?”

Stanley lifted the pan from the stove. “Well, it wouldn’t be that nice.”

“Then you wouldn’t get the deep pockets — all those dressed-up big spenders! Because people like that do want a gorgeous environment. Which is it, son? Steal from the rich or give to the poor? Because you can’t have both at the same time — not legally. Remember Milam’s?”

“It’s not stealing or giving, it’s — it’s all legit, it’s—” Distracted, Stanley scraped the eggs onto a plate beside the beans. They sent up a plume of butter steam. He slipped the plate before Brian with a spoonful of homemade salsa. “It’s a whole other idea of things, Dad. It’s a community.”

“You mean a commune, I think. It’s a beautiful idea, communism — for saints and angels.”

“No — I mean community .” Stanley dropped the pan and spatula into the sink. “Same idea as family — or a neighborhood. I know you must get it. Community has to come first, or there’s nothing.”

Brian picked up his fork. “Listen, Stan, Jesus. Just get your degree. College gives you a chance to live a little, think things over, meet people. You think you don’t need it, but you’ll always regret it if you don’t, believe me.”

“Dad, I can tell you right now exactly how I’m going to feel about this later — I don’t want it and I don’t need it.”

“You do .” Brian’s tone was preemptory. Irritated, he forked up some eggs. At first he didn’t taste them, but gradually he did: the curds were light, bearing traces of salt, pepper, and butter. He felt almost, but not exactly, as if he were sad. He inhaled deeply and exhaled. He stopped talking for a moment and ate. His son had made this. Even then, seven years ago, Brian was beginning to sense the size of his debt to Stanley — the permanence of it. Even before Felice was all they could think or talk about, he’d given up spending time with Stanley. It was easier to let Avis raise the children and Brian would bring home money — just as it was done in all sorts of families for generations.

Why couldn’t he soften toward his son then? Instead he finished eating and put his fork on his plate and said, “You’re going to college, Stan. You’re too young to make this decision, so I’m making it for you. Case closed.”

The sun in his window is flat and pitiless. There’s an ache at the center of his chest that seems to have to do with both of his children. We were watching the wrong child, he thinks, a sensation of some vital organ deep within dragged across a grater.

WAITING FOR THE ELEVATOR Brian catches the flutter of Spanish just before the door opens: Esmeralda is there, speaking with Hector, the mailroom boy. “Mandale saludos a tu madre de parte mia.” They glance at Brian.

“Thanks, I will,” Hector says as he wheels out his mail cart. “Hello, Mr. Muir.”

Esmeralda checks her watch. “Brian — you’re leaving at a decent hour for once?”

Brian feels a streak of mild irritation: Javier sometimes intimates that deals take place in these corridors in Spanish. So Brian tries to act unconcerned — as if he almost understands. Could speak if he so desired. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“What?”

“You know.” He smiles. “Switch to English for my sake.”

Esmeralda stares at the closing elevator doors. “I’ve found that Ameri — that English speakers — think you’re talking about them when you speak Spanish — even though you’re usually not.”

“You’re American too, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that, Brian.” She lifts her eyebrows. “I’m even proud of it, believe it or not.”

They lapse into silence, mesmerized by the digital display of floors: 25, 24, 23…

“You know, Brian,” Esmeralda says softly, still staring into the glassy black doors. “You might want to be a little more cautious.”

His jaw loosens. “Because I said you’re American?”

“No, Brian.” She glares at him, folds her arms in her silk blazer over her imposing chest. She has the skinniness of incipient old age — her stockings have a fold at each ankle — but at sixty-five, she has held on to her good bones and posture.

17, 16, 15…

“ Because, you really might want to ask yourself if it’s worth it.” Her tone has softened into something unendurable, like pity, as she raises her presumptuous, irritating nose. He turns back to face the digital display.

“I honestly don’t know—”

“Fernanda,” she cuts in. “I’m talking about Fernanda.”

10, 9…

He sighs, squeezing the fingers of his left hand with his right. Is that a tremor? Is he actually developing a tremor? Deep in his body, he feels something shift, as if his bowels were loosening.

“That’s a certain type of girl.”

6, 5…

He stares at her. “Oh, now, Esme.”

“You’re in over your head with that one.”

The elevator doors swish open to the marble lobby. “Just so you know.” Esmeralda strides out into the watery light, one hand curled up behind her back to wave at Brian as she goes. He remains in the elevator, watching. Twenty years ago he and Esmeralda had carried on an energetic flirtation. He’d been distracted by her topaz eyes, her tiny feet and waist, the way her upper lip curled back when she smiled, creating a minuscule dimple. But they were both married, and Brian wasn’t actually interested in taking things any further. He’d even wondered if there was something wrong with him for not going after Esmeralda, pursuing her the way he heard upper management pursued affairs. And in all those years of secretaries, escorts, interns, the rumored private trysting apartments supposedly shared among the vice presidents, the junkets and conferences and the trading-in of spouses for ever-younger models, Brian had never seriously entertained the idea of having an affair.

She’s jealous: he winces and smiles. He strides across the lobby, briefcase swinging; he feels rising indignation on behalf of both himself and Fernanda. These… Cuban women —he thinks— with their village minds.

Rufus steps forward and holds the door. Brian walks through, so preoccupied, he barely notices the man. Rufus says something. He turns. “What was that?”

Rufus’s face is like a piece of carved mahogany. “Didn’t say nothing, Mr. Muir.”

Brian holds his shoulders squared all the way to the car. His hand shakes as he turns the key in the ignition and he checks his rearview at least a dozen times as he backs out. What is wrong with him? He needs to have that pressure in his lower abdomen checked out. If only he still believed in doctors. He cranks his big steering wheel, pouring his car into the stream of traffic — the speed demons and sudden-stoppers and befuddled elderly — the deep madness of Miami embodied in its drivers. The sky is backlit with high, dense clouds, a fast-approaching system. He passes the dinosaur crouching outside the Museum of Science. In the middle of the traffic, creeping and stopping and loitering for miles along the Dixie, he turns on the radio. The Miami skyline, pale as a leisure suit, glistens in his rearview. It’s only 5:50 but the sky darkens, gathering clouds. Brian creeps ahead one car length as he tries, once again, to listen to the angry chanting of rap. It may take him an hour and a half to travel the seven miles back to the Gables. There’s a rumble he assumes is a jet. Then another — this one so close he flinches, the floor of the car vibrating.