Page 36 of Pride and Protest
His mother had recognized him instantly. Something aboutthe configuration of his face brought on the painful memories of his biological father. He found out from her that she had been abused repeatedly by two brothers in the household she was working in. Her life had been a nightmare. She told him with frankness that it was only her fear of hell that made her not suffocate her baby in his sleep. She had a new family now and didn’t want to be reminded of her secret shame. His biological mother was not beautiful by Asian standards; she had the burnished brown skin of the working class, the diminutive height and round face that he never saw in Filipino TV and film, unless the person was a thief or the comic relief. But in the hours of his visit, she had made him a pot ofarroz caldoand spoke with her head down. He saw a gracefulness in her movements, a kind of moving beauty he rarely witnessed. Afterward, she had shooed him out of her kitchen before her new husband came through the front door.
He never reached back out.
“Dorsey...” He hated that low tone in her voice. Why had he even told her that? He had told no one about that miserable and desperate trip. It was the beginnings of the cold cynicism that pervaded his thinking these days. He had seen too many people crushed under the heel of money to be idealistic about mere ideas.
“My adoptive mom was a mother in all of those perfect ways, though. She was warm and supportive, and I’ve molded my life after her.”
“Why are you building unaffordable homes in poor neighborhoods, then?” The sharpness was gone from her voice. It was simply a question.
“For both of them, actually,” he said. “Any sufficient humanitarian effort requires financial support. Sometimes we can’t beprecious about where that support comes from.” If Netherfield Court didn’t go through, his mother’s foundation was finished. All his plans for learning centers and schools for girls all over the world would never receive the funding to get off the ground.
Liza huffed and crossed her arms. “How does one ethically amass this much money?”
Dorsey shrugged. He touched the big screen on the dashboard, changing the playlist from his conspicuous “Planet Money” podcast to some nice and safe pop music. “How does one ethically consume in a capitalist society?”
She didn’t look convinced. “Is that your answer—we’re all trapped in an inescapable web?” Dorsey smirked and shook his head. Liza lived in a world of fair-trade coffee and museum gift shop scarves sewn by women’s collectives in Sudan. He had been where she was. Ten years ago, he’d thought like Liza; he’d built awareness campaigns and read Karl Marx. But going around the world and witnessing such miserable conditions confirmed one thing: that money, andonlymoney, was power. It was a Swiss Army knife. To change the world, ideas alone wouldn’t do a thing. As the CEO of Pemberley, he’d allowed a hard, protective crust to form over him. Liza would do a lot better if she didn’t always walk around with her heart and politics on her sleeve. But that wasn’t an argument he expected to win tonight.
He had managed to get her to agree to drinks. Now all he had to do wasnotfuck it up.
BULL VS. COW
Dorsey was surprised that the Hotel Washington was only two blocks from the White House and that the building was more than two hundred years old. He marveled at the architecture, a blend of 1930s federal and old British Empire styles. The ornate lobby had dramatic marble columns wrapped with holly and lights in preparation for Christmas. He turned to look at Liza, whose eyes were up on the detailed tray ceilings with intricate paintings representing each state in the country. She reached out and touched the lush greenery, and her boots swooshed lightly on the detailed tiled mosaics on the floor.
“This is next level,” was all she said. Liza didn’t put on airs. If she thought something was cool, she let herself like it. While he was constantly gauging what others thought to determine his level of enthusiasm. The way she had clapped in delight unselfconsciously about his car—he would give anything to feel so comfortable in his skin. She moved toward the enormous tree in the middle of the lobby and took a big dramatic breath. “Do you smell that natural pine smell? Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“It smells like Christmas.”
“Is that what Christmas smells like? We’ve never had an actual tree. Granny would just take the plastic tree out of storage and we’d put it up together. There were still awesome memories, but what I wouldn’t give for a real tree one day.”
Dorsey found them a table. The sun was setting and the light at such a slant made little rainbows dance out of Liza’s earrings and onto her face. Miles Davis’s “My Funny Valentine” played, and this whole evening felt like a woozy dream. He ordered something bland; she ordered something on fire. They drank, and no matter where he looked, he crashed into her eyes. He stuttered out a comment on the architecture, on the weather.
His heart beat unnaturally fast in his chest. It was the same feeling he had when he bombed that board meeting. He was bombing this social interaction. Gigi couldn’t bail him out now. He exhaled. What if he tried not pretending?
“I didn’t want what I just ordered,” he blurted out.
Liza nodded as if that was what she expected. “Why did you order it?”
“I thought that’s what Ishouldorder. My dad always ordered whiskey neat. It just seems like a drink I should like.” Dorsey did not know why he was suddenly telling her this.
Liza tapped his forefinger. “What do youactuallywant?”
You, he thought, but dared not say. At least not tonight. So close to the holidays, the loss of his family was most acute. His loft in the city was too cold and empty. He dreaded going home. But some kinds of honesty were not useful.
“I wanted that drink that was on fire too,” Dorsey said instead.
Liza smiled and slid her mug across the table. The setting sun hit the reddish highlights in her hair, and Dorsey wondered how long she had to sit to get her hair so intricately twisted. Heremembered his sister getting braids, and it seemed like an all-day affair. Liza’s eyes found his. “Taste it, then, and order again.” The teddy-bear-brown pools were so soft, the heaviness seemed to lift a little from his chest.
He took the mug of Mexican Sunseta fuegofrom her and encircled her entire hand with his in the exchange. She didn’t move away. What the hell kind of parallel world had he walked into? She didn’t pull her hand away and slap him or laugh. Reluctantly pulling his own hands away, he lifted and turned the glass until he saw the rosy half-moons of her lip gloss stained against the rim. He took a sip and squinted.
“A lot of mezcal,” he said. Dorsey unrolled the napkin and placed it on his lap. He only stopped when Liza looked at him laughing.
“You’re so precise with that napkin,” Liza teased.Here we go.
“Do you mean correct?”
She tucked her napkin into her collar. “I mean persnickety.”
“If you keep that around your neck, I’m going to have to report you.”
