let them eat fruitcake: the confession

So, here is the second part of the Jennifer Egan-ish version of using time. Here's the link to the previous part.

Again, this is from Rosemary Graham's class when we were to write two episodes, each for one character and later reveal the relationship(s) between the two. I've written about the older character, and now here's the younger.

***

“Craig, I want you to meet someone,” Janice, my boss at De Young Museum said as I was just laying a piece of fabric on my work table.

“I’ve heard great things about you,” an older woman said, extending her right hand.

“Ms... Ms. Marshy,” I said, startled. “How do you do?” and we shook hands, I felt a firm grip for a woman of her age. I looked at Janice who smiled proudly at me.

Carolena Marshy was a legend. She had been the curator of the textile wing at the museum ever since it was opened and Janice was her protégé. I was told that she once gathered 25 fabric restorers, including Janice, to work day and night so De Young could present its vintage French lace and damask collection. The team pulled it off in just two weeks. The mere thought of seeing and basking in the luxurious views of endless rows of antique lace and burnt velvets made my heart flutter. Ms. Marshy was responsible to begin the heydays for fabric restorers. In a recent interview at a local paper, she said that nobody was taking the job seriously anymore and she felt concerned that it was going to be a lost art.

“He’s been working here for just four months and he’s done wonders in restoring the old Uzbekistan Saye Goshas,” Janice said.

“Yes. I saw his work last month when I visited the museum,” Ms. Marshy said, nodding her acknowledgement.

“Oh, God. I don’t know if I can accept that praise,” I said, ironically looking over at Kimberly and Miller, my two seniors who dumped everything on me. They were in it for the galas, free-flow booze, and mingling with the socialites, they said. I was tempted to tell them they should’ve become poets instead, because they would’ve gotten away with less work and more booze, but I just shut my mouth.

“And modest too,” Janice added. Ms. Marshy smiled. I cringed, worried they would sniff a layer of fakeness.

“Ah, Tulle bi Telli. You’re in for a treat!” Ms. Marshy exclaimed as she saw what I was about to work on: a half-century-old Egyptian tulle shawl with bits of silvery and golden metal pounded and woven into it in geometric shapes as well as figures of the sun, the palm trees, and the huts, making the wearer look as if she or he was draped in liquid silver or gold. These days, two yards of this thing could fetch up to two thousand dollars.

“Yes. This one is in pretty bad shape,” I said, pointing at the holes on the ecru colored fabric and some pieces of metals that were missing. “But still, she’s really pretty.” I must have said that sheepishly because Janice and Ms. Marshy chuckled. I could feel the warmth of her eyes behind those thick lenses. The wrinkles around her lips deepened as she smiled.

“He’s restored three so far,” Janice said.

“That’s seventeen more to go,” I sighed. “And we’re only given ten days.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can do it,” Ms. Marshy said. “Well, off you go, then. You need to get this thing finished before next week so we could preview it, yes?” There was benevolence in her firm, commanding voice.

I nodded. I saw Janice and Ms. Marshy walked around the room but didn’t bother to say hi to Kimberly and Miller who suddenly found something to work on to look busy. I smiled deeply at this, suddenly feeling that I had the best job and the boss in the world, even though I was sure I’d go blind in ten years. And this I confided in Ms. Marshy on the opening night twelve days later when De Young showcased its Egyptian Textile collection, including the twenty gleaming Tulle bi Telli. Ms. Marshy had the ecru with the heavy silvery metals draped around her as a shawl. And later, as we took our champagnes to a corner and let the guests mingle, I told her about how my fascination with fabrics actually began when a thirteen year-old Craig O’Reilly defied his father and bought his first Barbie doll with the money he had made from making pencil cases and tote bags from denim pants that no longer fit him.

***

let them eat fruitcake: closed door

My attempt to pull a Jennifer Egan's Visit from the Goon Squad. In the book, she plays with time to confuse the reader as to when and where the reader is. She does it so well, however.

For Rosemary Graham's class, we were to write two episodes, one for each character, and to reveal the connection(s), beginning with the older character.

***

Lilian sits at the dinner table. Across her is her husband, Duncan. Their two sons, Craig and Ben, are sitting on each side of the rectangle table. It’s a special night and they’re feasting, celebrating Lilian’s fortieth birthday and her and Duncan’s fourteenth anniversary.

She has cooked her famous Beggar Chicken, whole chicken stuffed with herbs and spices and wrapped inside thick layers of dough that preserves and simmers the aroma of the herbs and spices and forces them to blend and mix with the juices of the chicken. After an hour of roasting, when the loaf is sliced open, it reveals the naked skin of the chicken, glowing with a mouthwatering golden hue that first catches the eyes, then lets the nose agree, and finally makes the stomach demand.

The side dish is slices of Silk tofu with mushroom and thick vegetable broth. Lilian knows it’s Craig’s favorite dish. That’s why she made it. Craig first discovered it while they were at Uncle Tang’s. It was served under a different name, something that promises and celebrates good life with words as poetic as the ones written on the tiny paper inside the Fortune Cookie.

“Honey, this food is just… delicious,” Duncan says as he closes his eyes when the first forkful of chicken and herb and spices and warm white rice melts on his tongue. “Really. I’m at loss for words.”

“Don’t make that a habit. Or you lose in court and we go broke and can’t afford dinner,” Lilian answers with a grin. Duncan laughs so hard that his body shakes.

“I promise I won’t,” he says, and gazes lovingly into her eyes. “So, Craig, how’s school?” Duncan asks.

“Oh, not much. I’m… I’m joining the Sewing Circle,” Craig answers hesitantly. Lilian realizes that he hasn’t touched his tofu. He is just making circles around the broth, tracing the edges of the tofu with his chopsticks.

“Sewing?” Duncan asks, raising his left eyebrow. His smile faded. “For what?”

“Oh, I… I don’t know. Maybe I can patch the elbows of your jackets like the ones in the fancy catalogues, or make my own jacket, or make pencil cases and sell them at school,” Craig says. Lilian smiles softly at her elder son, ready to do business at such a young age, just like his mother.

“Why would you want to do that?” Duncan asks, interrogating Craig, like when he barrages questions into whoever is giving testimonies against his client in court.

“Oh, I don’t know. To make some money, I guess.”

“For what?” Duncan repeats. “So you can buy that Barbie doll? We’ve been through this and the answer is no. Not even with your own money!”

Suddenly, Lilian feels her face tensed and she looks at Craig. His head is bent down. He’s staring at the dish under his nose, still stirring it with detached intensity. She switches her gaze to Duncan. Her husband is still looking at their elder son. She can see rows of emotions flashing in Duncan’s eyes but she exhales her relief softly when she realizes no hatred is emanating from them. Just concern, confusion, and perhaps fear.

Craig sits there in silence.

“Stop playing with your food. Show your mother some respect and eat it. And Craig,” Duncan pauses, “Look at me.”

Lilian sees Craig lift his head and meet the gaze of his father.

“I never, ever want Roger to paint your nails again, do you hear?”

“But Dad, it’s clear polish!”

“Never again, Young Man, understood? It makes you look like a sissy,” Duncan hisses.

Craig nods, but stays silent. In fact, Craig stays silent the entire night, even as Ben exclaims that he was asked to join the Debate Club and Duncan slaps the table with a roaring and approving laughter, high-fiving his younger son who says he said yes. Craig stays silent even after he has finished his meal, even after he has finished helping Lilian wash the dishes. The silence follows him to his room and fades with him as he closes the door behind him.

That night, even through the thick wooden door and layers of blanket and pillow over Craig’s face, Lilian can hear his hiccupping sobs. And with great burden, she retreats her hand, cancelling the thought of knocking on the wood and taking her son in her arms and comforting him. And softly, she moves away from the door, letting Craig be with himself, as he has always been whenever he cries.

***

Second part will be published next week (it's written and scheduled!)