Edward Lee: The Backwoods

The restaurant busied itself around them, soft chat haunted by barely audible Oriental harps, and soft accents explaining tonight’s specials: Thai-style cuttlefish in three spices, Peking duck, and Szechuan beef proper.

More seriously now, Byron said, “I’m sorry this other matter’s darkened your celebration dinner. I wanted this to be special.”

She squeezed his hand under the table. “It’s very special. It could be McDonald’s and it would be special, as long as you were here.”

Byron smiled meekly. “Anyway, a toast. To your promotion.″

They tinked tiny glasses of rich plum wine. Patricia was a real estate lawyer whose firm had just officially elevated from number two to the number one spot in the field. For the last ten years the realty market in the entire Washington and northern Virginia area had been going nuts, and it had never been nuttier than now, which meant prime business for attorneys such as she. Making partner gave her a share of company net earnings, and their Georgetown brownstone was already paid off and worth five times what they paid. She and Byron had always had a good life together, but now it was going to be a great life.

“I don’t like it, though. It seems sexist.” Byron returned to some levity, expertly chopsticking a piece of rumaki. “Your firm, McGinnis, Myers, and Morakis. You’re a partner now. Shouldn’t it be McGinnis, Myers, Morakis, and White? ”

“Bad aesthetics, Byron,” she answered. “That would screw up the marketable ring—the three Ms. Besides, I don’t need my name on the door. First thing I do with my signing bonus is take my wonderful husband to Hong Kong so you can finish your fine-dining book.”

“It may sound like a foolish indulgence for me to have this gluttonous dream, but what you must understand is that a preeminent critic such as myself needs to experience tao fu fa smoked bean curd and fish-head soup at the best Cantonese restaurant in the world—″

She smiled, looking at him. “Whatever turns you on, honey. I admire your passion. Me, I love good food too, but I don’t have the same appreciation.” She gestured at her plate. “This, for instance. It’s great; it’s even probably the best shrimp I’ve ever had—”

Byron winced automatically. “Honey, they’re not shrimp; they’re langoustines from Morton Bay in Australia. Not shrimp at all, but actually a genus of crevice lobster—”

Patricia nodded it off. “Fine. But to an unsophisticated taste like mine it’s shrimp, and it’s great, but I just don’t have your knack for communicating that to other people. I don’t have your love for that. You’d probably describe this as—″

Before she could finish, Byron plucked a langoustine off her plate, savored it in his mouth, and said, “A mysterious conspiracy of authenticated spice work, punctuating the sweetness of this distant and very exotic crustacean. The wild bite of tender shallot sprouts has been sufficiently tamed by just the right heat, all to impart a magnificent delectability rarely available to American palates. In all, the dish equates to culinary poetics.″

“Exactly,” she said, and laughed. “Hong Kong will definitely be your element, and I can’t wait to see you in it.” And it was true. They’d been together for twenty years, and it was Byron who’d worked so many extra hours while Patricia had been in law school and doing associate work. “You helped make my dream come true,” she said more quietly, “and I know a lot of the time it seems like I’ve forgotten about that.”

“Nonsense, it′s our dream, and we get to live it together,” Byron said.

She wondered, feeling even more guilty now. Most of the time she was too busy writing interrogatories for pretrial hearings to remind herself that she was a part of his life. I’ll make it all up to him, starting now , she promised, hoping it wasn’t just another excuse. He’d always wanted to go to Hong Kong—for the restaurants—and in twenty years, she’d never had time. She’d always been too busy. Well, not anymore, she thought. I’m one of the bosses now. “So like I said, the first thing I do as partner is take you to Hong Kong.” But then a troubling thought intervened. “Well, I mean . . . the second thing.”

“Of course,the funeral,” Byron said more soberly. “Why don’t you let me go with you? It’s a long drive by yourself.”

“It’s only three hours or so.”

“Well, that′s not what I mean. You won’t want to be alone in that crowd and that situation.”

She knew what he meant. She’d never felt in place down there in Agan’s Point, because she simply wasn’t in place. They all think I’m a conceited cosmopolite . . . which I guess I am. “Judy’s fine with me,” she assured him, “and as far as the others go, to hell with them.” It was a strange sentiment. Only ingrates left their birth-place for the city, people who thought they were better than everyone else. “I won’t lie to you: I don’t want to go, and if you want to know the truth, they can drop Dwayne’s body in a trench and cover it over with dirt and not even have a funeral service . . . but—”

Byron nodded. “But you need to be there for Judy. Of course you do. That′s how any real person would feel.”

But her own thoughts, and what Byron had finished for her, made her feel awkward. I was never there for her when she really needed me, was I? Family loyalty and careers often warred with each other—a trademark of modern nuclear families—and in Patricia’s case, the family loyalty had lost out. Deep down Judy never forgave me for not staying in town to go to a closer college not too many years after Mom and Dad died. . . .

More war, between her life as it was now, and however familial responsibility might be interpreted. Instead, she changed the subject. “I also want to look at the company records, see what kind of damage Dwayne may have done behind her back. The deal was, she did the accounting and Dwayne supervised the personnel, but I have my doubts. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he was skimming some kickbacks off the crabbers.”

“Don’t change the subject. I still think I should go with you,” Byron prodded.

She sighed. It was out of the question. His family crises had never interfered with her; hence, she was determined not to allow the opposite. “You can’t take off work just for that,” she deflected.

“My monthly column’s already finished—the piece on local caviar lounges—and I could zip out this week’s feature review tonight. Going back to Agan’s Point under these circumstances will be pretty damn uncomfortable for you. Let me go—even if it’s only for the first few days. It might keep some of the stress at bay.”

Patricia dearly wished she could say yes—she wanted to so much. But it’s not fair to him. That backwoods place is just as weird and awkward for him as it is for me. “No,” she declared. “You stay here and do your job. You’re the best culinary critic on that whole paper. I can’t have you slipping because of me.”

″But—″

“No,” she repeated. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Just give me some great sex before I leave.″

Byron’s rotund face seemed to brace for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, “No problem.”

The dim morning light seemed to make the street feel more desolate. Just this moment, it looked like anything but summer in the city. Only the faintest tinges of sunlight began to filter through the smog, which would only get worse when rush hour commenced. At least she wouldn’t have to drive through any of that this morning.

Patricia felt disconnected as Byron placed her suitcases in the trunk of the sporty Cadillac SRX. In the meager light, the car’s sumptuous burgundy paint job looked black.