The next day, he registered for the fall classes Peter and Kay suggested, and when Kay said, “You paid Angel back, right?” he said he had.
TO CELEBRATE DANIEL FINISHING the summer with passing grades, Peter and Kay took him out to dinner at the Ridgeborough Inn, where they had gone for his high school graduation, the publication of Kay’s book, and Peter’s promotion to department chair after Valerie McClellan had retired. The Inn was a dimly lit cave with wooden beams and obsequious elderly waiters in heavy maroon-and-gold uniforms, a matching menu listing steaks and chops and French onion soup in ornate cursive font. It was the only restaurant near Ridgeborough where you didn’t look out of place in a jacket and tie.
Peter ordered a bottle of Malbec. The waiter filled their glasses, and Peter raised his. “To Daniel, for being back on the right path. To the beginning of the rest of your life.”
Daniel had borrowed a tie of Peter’s and wore the one suit jacket he had, the sleeves now short on him, but the shoulders loose. He kept adjusting the tie, pulling down on the cuffs. Even his pants were tighter than they had been a few months ago, now that he drove instead of walking.
The right path was veering off the side of a cliff. Peter and Kay were beaming. “We’re proud of you,” Kay said.
He blew on his soup to cool it, used his spoon to break up the bread on top. A tendril of steam escaped; still too hot to eat. He placed his spoon on the table, its round face shining up at him like a query.
The waiter hovered over them, offering pepper for their salads. Small candles twinkled on the tables, but the maroon wallpaper and thick curtains made the room cold and dark. Paintings with baroque brass frames hung from the walls, portraits of men in military uniforms, women in long dresses, their expressions pinched and severe. Landscapes of rolling hills and weeping willows, white farmhouses in the distance.
“That’s the famous Ridgeborough oxbow.” Peter squinted at a painting of a meadow with a river on one side.
“I don’t see any oxen,” Daniel said.
“Oxbow. The river is making an oxbow there. See, it bends this way and that. This must be former Wilkinson land, here in the painting. My grandfather mentioned it in the family history he wrote before he passed.” Peter’s voice rose. “Your great-great-grandfather owned that land once. He grew vegetables, he had horses. He was an enterprising man. Jacob Wilkinson.”
Daniel pressed his spoon into his soup again. There was a quiet sorrow about the weighted silver cutlery, the paintings of bygone people and places. He was the last of the Wilkinsons, the only grandchild. His only cousins were on Kay’s side of the family, and they had his Uncle Gary’s last name. The way Peter spoke about it, being the last of the line was a great responsibility; he had to do something special to live up to Jacob Wilkinson’s legacy. This man he looked nothing like, whom, if he had been alive, would probably never accept Daniel as a true Wilkinson.
The spoon peered up at him and he looked down at the metal, hoping to see his reflection, but it was too dark to see anything but drops of soup.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE first day of fall semester, Daniel edited a track on Peter’s computer. His voice sounded strange, pitching sharp, too forceful for the melody.
The shelves in the study housed an overflow of books, with somber covers and lengthy titles about democracy and open markets. Copies of Peter and Kay’s own books filled half a shelf. He’d looked at them before, had seen the author biographies and photographs. Peter’s book was dedicated to Daniel and Kay; Kay’s to Daniel and Peter. The wall above the computer showcased their diplomas: bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degrees for both of them. Framed proof of their other accomplishments, awards, articles, book reviews in academic journals, surrounded him. He took his headphones off. The song wasn’t working.
He walked past Peter and Kay’s room to make sure they were still asleep, then came back to the study and shut the door. Telling himself it wouldn’t work, that he was only trying because he wanted to make sure it wouldn’t work, he typed BigPoker into the browser. Breath quickening, he typed .com and hit return. He remembered an old account, one he’d barely used and hadn’t told Peter and Kay about. The homepage loaded, and seeing the green background and digital cards felt like running into an old girlfriend. There was fifty dollars in this forgotten account. He would play just one game and log out, then cancel everything.
He started on a table of chumps, like that guy in his Econ class, and someone named AardvarkTexas went all in with a pair of queens—Daniel called, holding pocket aces—but then he couldn’t quit while ahead. One game turned into two, which turned into a sit-and-go, and another, and his account was up to a hundred dollars, then three hundred, then five. He danced in the chair, listening to the clinks and chimes of chips and cards, woozy from the rush, until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I knocked,” Peter said.
“Dad?” His heart pounded, but he couldn’t help it; he turned to the screen to confirm his winning hand. His account ticked up. As Peter watched, Daniel pumped his fist in the air.
This time, Peter was calm, like he’d been expecting this. “All right. That’s enough now.”
IT WAS SEVEN IN the morning. Daniel packed his backpack, the same one he had brought with him to the city, but left his guitar in his room. He’d have them send it to him later, wherever he was going.
Kay sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea. There were half-moon shadows under her eyes, which were puffy from crying.
“You’re not going to ask me to stay?”
She shook her head. “I got an e-mail from Elaine.”
He pulled his bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll let myself out.”
Fifteen
He remembered nothing about the flight, only darkness, rocking, then waking nineteen hours later to sunlight slamming through the window, walking off the plane and into a humid afternoon, one full day disappeared. The lone runway was surrounded by potholed streets, a long line of dirt and rocks, like the airport had been dropped into a sandbox. Language flew around him at warp speed, harsher and throatier than the same dialects he’d heard in New York.
Motorcyclists circled like vultures. “Fuzhou!” they barked. “Fuzhou!” He took a step forward, and three motorcyclists braked and shouted. “Get on, quick,” the first man said, and Daniel balanced himself on the seat and was fixing the straps of his backpack when the driver accelerated and he flew forward. “Grab on,” the guy said. He wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, coughing back exhaust as they shot through the streets. He saw other motorcyclists and passengers wearing smog masks.
“Where you going?” the driver asked.
“Fuzhou,” Daniel yelled.
“Where in Fuzhou?”
“Downtown?”
“Wuyi Square.”