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Authors: Dinaw Mengestu
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that way, don’t you think?” she said.
I nodded my head in agreement. We ate our dinner off porcelain plates with gold-trimmed edges while sitting on the leather couches. Judith and Naomi were spread out on one while I sat across from them with my food delicately balanced on my lap. I watched every bite as it traveled from the tip of my fork into my mouth. I tried to erase any sound of food being ground into bits by chewing slowly, but it was never quite enough. I was still there, with all of my flaws, in Judith’s immaculate living room, which was larger and grander than anything I had ever sat and eaten in since coming to Logan Circle. I kept my legs close together and limited my movements to a few simple nods of the head. My plate teetered on a few occasions, and had it fallen on the newly restored hardwood floors, I’m confident I would have shattered with it.
We ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds being those of our forks scraping gently against the plates. Finally Judith made a desperate attempt to overcome the sudden silence.
“Did you ever get to read Ralph Emerson or Alexis de Tocqueville?” she asked.
“A little,” I said.
“Years ago,” I added a moment later to cover up the lie.
“Americans hate history,” she said. She began to lecture then about Emerson and Tocqueville, about America’s repudiation of history and its antipathy toward anything that resembled the past. Her eyes trailed off to a corner of the living room, where they stayed locked. She spoke eloquently and passionlessly, her words probably repeated a hundred times over the years in front of crowded classrooms. She wasn’t speaking to me or Naomi but to the room, which needed to be filled with at least one of our voices. I nodded my head and listened attentively, trying to find a narrow gap in which I could insert a well-timed grunt of agreement.
“We always want to believe that we’re the first to do anything,” she continued. “We’re always racing something or someone, even if it’s all just in our head. We raced across America to get to the Pacific, and then we raced to build a railroad to connect it all. We raced to the moon. We raced to build as many bombs as was humanly possible. I wonder if now we haven’t run out of things to race against. I think the moment that happens, we’ll have nothing to do but look back. Then we’ll know if it was worth it.”
Naomi was leaning against her mother’s legs, which were folded up on the couch specifically for that purpose. She was bored and staring at her fingernails. She chewed on the corner of her index finger while Judith talked. I wondered how many times she had heard this before, if she could repeat it word for word if asked.
“I should have taught a class called ‘Races.’ It could have been great.”
“It’s still not too late,” I added.
“No. It is. I have a year-long sabbatical that I’m already halfway through and I can’t see myself going back.”
Naomi, who hadn’t spoken throughout Judith’s condensed lecture, finally found an opening to jump in.
“You should get a job,” she said. “You could work at the store with Mr. Stephanos.”
“But then what would he do?”
“He could watch me.”
Judith leaned over her knees and wrapped her arms around Naomi’s neck. I tried to look away as she did but instead caught her eyes staring at me from the side. It was my first victory of the evening.
“That doesn’t sound too bad to me,” I said.
After dinner Judith offered me a tour of the house while Naomi prepared for bed.
“It was amazing what this place looked like when I bought it. Parts of the floor were missing; most of the paint had fallen off; almost every window had a crack in it.”
Every floor of the house had been meticulously restored. The second had been turned into a bedroom for Naomi, and a massive library and TV room; the first, into the living room and dining room we had just left. It was just as the
I nodded my head in agreement. We ate our dinner off porcelain plates with gold-trimmed edges while sitting on the leather couches. Judith and Naomi were spread out on one while I sat across from them with my food delicately balanced on my lap. I watched every bite as it traveled from the tip of my fork into my mouth. I tried to erase any sound of food being ground into bits by chewing slowly, but it was never quite enough. I was still there, with all of my flaws, in Judith’s immaculate living room, which was larger and grander than anything I had ever sat and eaten in since coming to Logan Circle. I kept my legs close together and limited my movements to a few simple nods of the head. My plate teetered on a few occasions, and had it fallen on the newly restored hardwood floors, I’m confident I would have shattered with it.
We ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds being those of our forks scraping gently against the plates. Finally Judith made a desperate attempt to overcome the sudden silence.
“Did you ever get to read Ralph Emerson or Alexis de Tocqueville?” she asked.
“A little,” I said.
“Years ago,” I added a moment later to cover up the lie.
“Americans hate history,” she said. She began to lecture then about Emerson and Tocqueville, about America’s repudiation of history and its antipathy toward anything that resembled the past. Her eyes trailed off to a corner of the living room, where they stayed locked. She spoke eloquently and passionlessly, her words probably repeated a hundred times over the years in front of crowded classrooms. She wasn’t speaking to me or Naomi but to the room, which needed to be filled with at least one of our voices. I nodded my head and listened attentively, trying to find a narrow gap in which I could insert a well-timed grunt of agreement.
“We always want to believe that we’re the first to do anything,” she continued. “We’re always racing something or someone, even if it’s all just in our head. We raced across America to get to the Pacific, and then we raced to build a railroad to connect it all. We raced to the moon. We raced to build as many bombs as was humanly possible. I wonder if now we haven’t run out of things to race against. I think the moment that happens, we’ll have nothing to do but look back. Then we’ll know if it was worth it.”
Naomi was leaning against her mother’s legs, which were folded up on the couch specifically for that purpose. She was bored and staring at her fingernails. She chewed on the corner of her index finger while Judith talked. I wondered how many times she had heard this before, if she could repeat it word for word if asked.
“I should have taught a class called ‘Races.’ It could have been great.”
“It’s still not too late,” I added.
“No. It is. I have a year-long sabbatical that I’m already halfway through and I can’t see myself going back.”
Naomi, who hadn’t spoken throughout Judith’s condensed lecture, finally found an opening to jump in.
“You should get a job,” she said. “You could work at the store with Mr. Stephanos.”
“But then what would he do?”
“He could watch me.”
Judith leaned over her knees and wrapped her arms around Naomi’s neck. I tried to look away as she did but instead caught her eyes staring at me from the side. It was my first victory of the evening.
“That doesn’t sound too bad to me,” I said.
After dinner Judith offered me a tour of the house while Naomi prepared for bed.
“It was amazing what this place looked like when I bought it. Parts of the floor were missing; most of the paint had fallen off; almost every window had a crack in it.”
Every floor of the house had been meticulously restored. The second had been turned into a bedroom for Naomi, and a massive library and TV room; the first, into the living room and dining room we had just left. It was just as the
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