Two hours of mindless dancing later, she had gathered that the woman’s name was Iman, that she worked for an insurance broker, doing accident claims, that her family was from Eritrea, that she had fled their happy life in the suburb of Brampton. And that Iman had a small condo on King Street that she rented with a friend.
“What kind of friend?” Tuyen asked above the music.
“Not that kind of friend. Someone I used to be involved with, but it’s nothing now.”
“Ah.”
“No hassle,” the woman assured her, sensing Tuyen’s dejection at possibly having to deal with a jealous ex. “Or we could go to your place?”
That prospect didn’t appeal to Tuyen. “No, if you say it’s all right.”
The music had simmered to R & B ballads, and they danced closely in the steam of each other, the woman putting her lips in the cup of Tuyen’s shoulder. Tuyen bought her another tequila, and she laughed, downing it and biting into a quarter moon of lemon, saying, “I don’t drink, you know. I’m a good Muslim girl.” When the set was over and the music picked up pace again, the woman led Tuyen off the dance floor toward the door. They left the cocoon of Pope Joan, hailed a cab, and went to Iman’s place.
The sex was casual, performative and muscular, rather than passionate; the kind of sex two strangers have, physical and unartistic except for the natural artistry of bodies. They would meet again and glide by each other at Pope Joan, perhaps nodding as if what had happened between them was the simplest of exchanges. But the sex they had needed no promises, except the work of thighs and hips and tongues and hands. They didn’t talk, they only held and squeezed, and wet and exhausted and too drunk to do more, they fell asleep. The next morning they parted as casually—Iman going to her job at the insurance broker and Tuyen making her way to her place on College Street above the store, across from Carla.
It was eight in the morning, and though it was unusual for her to be awake at that time, she had wanted to leave when Iman left.
As she walked the distance home, she felt as if she were still drunk—she hadn’t been able to sleep off the tequilas. But something had resolved itself in her mind. She simply had to confront Binh. She would do that and then she would go to Richmond Hill to size things up herself. After all, maybe she was imagining things. She had warned Binh not to make trouble, and he hadn’t called her with any news. After their last encounter she thought they had developed a kind of understanding, so she must be wrong about the photograph.
TWENTY-TWO
WHEN CARLA LEFT THE HOUSE after throwing the glass at Derek, Nadine turned on him. “You have a lot to pay for, Derek. She’s right. Why did I spend my life with you? How … how could you be so selfish?”
“I don’t want to hear about it, Nadine. Ever since the day those children came here, you turned on me.”
“Turned on you? They were children, for God’s sake! You’re a grown man. Take some responsibility.”
“Responsibility! Didn’t I take them in? Didn’t I?”
“You were duty bound. You were supposed to love them too.”
“You sided with that bitch against me. You and your family took her side. How the hell you could take her side after she ruined my life.”
“My God, Derek. She killed herself! You made her kill herself.”
“I didn’t make her kill herself. Don’t blame me for that.”
“Who else?”
“Just like I said. You take her side and turn against me. She was crazy. Shit, she had a mental condition!”
“Well, she wasn’t crazy enough to stop you from putting your dick where it didn’t belong.”
Derek wheeled on Nadine, raising his hand to hit her.
“Go on, hit me, Derek. It will be the last thing you do. Go on.”
“Fuck you, woman,” he said, pushing her aside to leave the room. “I don’t have time for this! You can go to hell.”
“You’re the one going to hell!” she yelled after his back going up the staircase. From the kitchen, a few minutes later, she heard him slam out the front door.
Derek hadn’t pushed Angie over the balcony, but he might as well have.
His friends, his family, had formed a protective circle around him after the inquest. Nadine felt like a bystander. Derek’s arms had gripped her shoulders in a nervous vice. She was his prop, his evidence that Angie was just a crazy bitch trying to come between him and his family. His grasp of her shoulder confirmed for Nadine that Derek was to blame. Angie’s mother had spat at him in the courtroom, shouted at him, “Figlio di puttana!” Outside, after the inquest, she walked over to him, reaching for him in what seemed at first a gesture of forgiveness. Nadine knew it wasn’t peace, it wasn’t forgiveness, it was vengeance. Derek saw Angie’s mother and made a strangling sound before she grasped his neck. “Fucking get her off me!” he screamed. He closed his eyes, she had something in her hand that was cutting into the right side of his neck. “Bastardo! Figlio di puttana!” Nadine watched in sweet horror, wishing the worst. It was a St. Christopher medallion. Derek thought it was a knife and tried to wrench himself away, yelling, “She’s got a knife!”
After the suicide they had taken in his children by Angie. Angie’s sister had dropped them at his door, the little girl, Nadine knew about her, and a squalling baby she didn’t quite know about. Derek had denied it, his face in that soft way, as if he had been wounded. He had promised her that it was over,
