Read Online Face by Aimee Liu, Daniel McNeill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aimee Liu, Daniel McNeill
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upstairs. For a
period of time Henry had lost his heart to a call girl from Buenos Aires with an apartment the size of the Ritz and an exceedingly
jealous john who killed for Baby Doc Duvalier.
“Nothing like that. This place belonged to a bond trader friend of mine. Until his SEC violations caught up with him.”
I gave my brother a soda, which he downed in one long draught before looking around. He took in the tripod and lights, the
compact stereo that kept me sane when setting up my shots, the rolls of backdrop paper, and display stands. The overflowing
crates of ideas awaiting my father’s plagiarism.
“Nice to see one of us inherited Mum’s knack for interior space.”
I opened the window as far as it would go and stuck my head out into the still, damp heat. “It’s like being smothered in velvet.”
“How poetic.” My brother turned on the radio, located an oldies station playing nonstop Motown greats, and started doing the
mashed potato in the middle of my set. He jumped down, bending his legs like Sammy Davis, Jr., backed into a Michael Jackson
moonwalk, then segued into a complex hip-hop routine. He reached out, begging, apingan agony of desire for me to join him in the dance. I laughed and threatened to charge him for the paper he was destroying.
Then Fontella Bass began belting out “Rescue Me,” and the phone rang. Harriet. The noise was giving her mother panic attacks.
I did realize she was serious about Bellevue—I didn’t have a man up there, did I?
“No, Harriet. There’s no man up here.”
Henry pantomimed horror and tiptoed across the room with his hand clapped over his mouth.
“I’ll remind you once, just once. It’s against the law to disturb the peace.”
I silenced Ms. Franklin, and my brother collapsed on Marge’s sofa.
Same old Henry. He still flung his limbs around as if they were made of rubber. Still combed his hand through his hair like
a bad boy. He still watched the world through half-closed eyes, and I still wondered whether he was avoiding the view out
or restricting the world’s view in. Maybe that’s what Tommy meant.
Why you don’t understand about face is because you have no face to lose.
“I saw an old friend of yours the other day.” I tossed him a sheet and blanket and pulled up a folding chair. “Tommy Wah.”
“No shit! Tommy? Where?”
“Emperor State Building.” I smiled.
“No shit,” he said again, carefully.
“Mum didn’t tell you he called?”
“No, when?”
“Last fall.” I fingered my locket. “He’s changed his name to Tai.”
“Not him, too.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So? What’s he want?”
“So he writes books. Calls himself a social historian. He wants me to take some pictures for his next project.”
Henry snorted and got up to investigate the contents of my refrigerator—several cans of tuna fish, a basket of peaches, some
moldy cheese, three cans of soda, a bottle of Schlitz.
“Mind if I have this?”
“Go ahead. I hate beer.”
“Yeah? Why’s it here, then?”
“Last guy who slept here left it.”
He cocked an eyebrow and unscrewed the cap, resumed his position on the couch. “You going to do it?”
“No.” I stretched the word for strength, let it hang in the air for emphasis. “And I’d as soon you didn’t mention any of this
to Mum.”
Henry shrugged. “So in his old age Tommy’s documenting the grand and glorious heritage of Chinatown.”
I stared at him.
“Close your mouth, sis, flies’ll get in. I’m not as brilliant as you think. I just knew him better ’n you did. Always thought
he’d turn into Chinatown’s Malcolm X, but I guess he’s opted for Studs Terkel. No big deal.”
In my brother’s sarcasm I heard the shudder of a well-aged and deeply felt antagonism. He once loved Chinatown—and Tommy—but
he’d turned on both with that cruel finality of his, and now his only way back was through jokes.
“That prophecy have anything to
period of time Henry had lost his heart to a call girl from Buenos Aires with an apartment the size of the Ritz and an exceedingly
jealous john who killed for Baby Doc Duvalier.
“Nothing like that. This place belonged to a bond trader friend of mine. Until his SEC violations caught up with him.”
I gave my brother a soda, which he downed in one long draught before looking around. He took in the tripod and lights, the
compact stereo that kept me sane when setting up my shots, the rolls of backdrop paper, and display stands. The overflowing
crates of ideas awaiting my father’s plagiarism.
“Nice to see one of us inherited Mum’s knack for interior space.”
I opened the window as far as it would go and stuck my head out into the still, damp heat. “It’s like being smothered in velvet.”
“How poetic.” My brother turned on the radio, located an oldies station playing nonstop Motown greats, and started doing the
mashed potato in the middle of my set. He jumped down, bending his legs like Sammy Davis, Jr., backed into a Michael Jackson
moonwalk, then segued into a complex hip-hop routine. He reached out, begging, apingan agony of desire for me to join him in the dance. I laughed and threatened to charge him for the paper he was destroying.
Then Fontella Bass began belting out “Rescue Me,” and the phone rang. Harriet. The noise was giving her mother panic attacks.
I did realize she was serious about Bellevue—I didn’t have a man up there, did I?
“No, Harriet. There’s no man up here.”
Henry pantomimed horror and tiptoed across the room with his hand clapped over his mouth.
“I’ll remind you once, just once. It’s against the law to disturb the peace.”
I silenced Ms. Franklin, and my brother collapsed on Marge’s sofa.
Same old Henry. He still flung his limbs around as if they were made of rubber. Still combed his hand through his hair like
a bad boy. He still watched the world through half-closed eyes, and I still wondered whether he was avoiding the view out
or restricting the world’s view in. Maybe that’s what Tommy meant.
Why you don’t understand about face is because you have no face to lose.
“I saw an old friend of yours the other day.” I tossed him a sheet and blanket and pulled up a folding chair. “Tommy Wah.”
“No shit! Tommy? Where?”
“Emperor State Building.” I smiled.
“No shit,” he said again, carefully.
“Mum didn’t tell you he called?”
“No, when?”
“Last fall.” I fingered my locket. “He’s changed his name to Tai.”
“Not him, too.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So? What’s he want?”
“So he writes books. Calls himself a social historian. He wants me to take some pictures for his next project.”
Henry snorted and got up to investigate the contents of my refrigerator—several cans of tuna fish, a basket of peaches, some
moldy cheese, three cans of soda, a bottle of Schlitz.
“Mind if I have this?”
“Go ahead. I hate beer.”
“Yeah? Why’s it here, then?”
“Last guy who slept here left it.”
He cocked an eyebrow and unscrewed the cap, resumed his position on the couch. “You going to do it?”
“No.” I stretched the word for strength, let it hang in the air for emphasis. “And I’d as soon you didn’t mention any of this
to Mum.”
Henry shrugged. “So in his old age Tommy’s documenting the grand and glorious heritage of Chinatown.”
I stared at him.
“Close your mouth, sis, flies’ll get in. I’m not as brilliant as you think. I just knew him better ’n you did. Always thought
he’d turn into Chinatown’s Malcolm X, but I guess he’s opted for Studs Terkel. No big deal.”
In my brother’s sarcasm I heard the shudder of a well-aged and deeply felt antagonism. He once loved Chinatown—and Tommy—but
he’d turned on both with that cruel finality of his, and now his only way back was through jokes.
“That prophecy have anything to
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