Casey was more angry than she thought humanly possible. “Why do atheists constantly harp on Christian hypocrisies? Why don’t you fucking dodgers just get your own set of beliefs to critique yourselves against? I never said I was a good person or a good Christian, Jay. I never even acted like I was. I just fucking went to church this morning, for chrissakes. We’re all fucking imperfect, you motherfucker. That’s the whole absurd point of salvation through grace. I don’t even know if I believe this. Got it, genius?” For the moment, he’d become the dumbest person alive.
“I wasn’t calling you a hypocr—” Jay stopped himself. “I didn’t really mean anything by that.”
“‘That’ being what? Fucking two girls or prodding me to do the Jesus thing and forgive your sorry ass?” Casey walked swiftly to the bedroom and pulled out the top two drawers, where she kept her lingerie and clothes. Nothing had been touched, and she stuffed the contents into the garbage bag. She stiffened her back, focusing on the rolled-up balls of socks and tights. She had missed her things.
Jay came up from behind and put his arms around her. Casey dropped her head to her chest, her chin touching her collarbone, and she breathed in. Paco Rabanne—it was the aftershave she’d bought him for his birthday. She turned around, not knowing if she’d slap him or walk away and never see him again—his soft cheeks, the ocean-colored eyes with their sparkle of black and gold, and the slight droop of his lower lids. She could imagine his face when he grew older, the receding hairline, the pouches under his eyes that would certainly grow heavier, even the blond hairs that would surely sprout from his ears. He’d resemble one of her history professors at Princeton. And at one point, she had loved that about him. His face over the years had become familiar to her—with all its expressions she found so dear; he was her lover and kin—like an older brother, a young uncle, a cousin, and a husband.
He kissed her on the mouth, and she did not pull away.
At four-thirty in the morning, she carried three half-filled garbage bags down to the lobby, where the doorman hailed her a taxi. Casey gave the doorman a buck for his service and spent eight dollars on her fare. At Ella’s, she took a shower, then went to work. It was Monday again.
12 LOSS
DOUGLAS SHIM WAS NOT THE TYPE of man to hold back his praise. He had always admired her singing. Nor was he shy. At Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat, where he was a surgeon director, Dr. Shim was known for his practical jokes, his wry sense of humor, and his unconscious out-of-tune whistling. But there was something about Leah Han that made him uneasy about approaching her.
It was not one of the Sundays when Leah and her husband served on the hospitality committee, which Douglas chaired. If her solo had coincided with a committee visit, Douglas would’ve told her how much he’d enjoyed her singing in her husband’s presence. It was a curious position to be in—that is, being an attractive widower and talking to married women, especially at church, and especially with Leah.
The Christmas Eve services had just ended, and the congregants were moving about the church basement, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and eating Entenmann’s doughnuts bought day old from the bakery outlet. Leah was headed to the choir room to change out of her robe, and Douglas raised his hand. Leah Han was known to him as Deaconess Cho—by her church title and, following Korean custom, her maiden name. She stopped and bowed her head to him slightly.
“Deaconess Cho.” He smiled. “‘How Great Thou Art’ is a beautiful song.” Only at church did Douglas speak his native language, and speaking Korean for only a few hours each Sunday reminded him of its formality—in its age and gender specificity—in direct contrast with the casualness of spoken English.
Leah blinked and smiled at the doctor. Elder Shim’s beak nose and triangular chin were not considered by Koreans to be desirable features, but his intelligent and amiable manner softened the angles of his face. Her husband was more classically handsome than Elder Shim, but Leah liked how the doctor was always so quick to smile, showing his neat row of white teeth—the reward for a lifetime of eschewing coffee and cigarettes.
Douglas folded his arms—the position he took for making a medical diagnosis. “That song was a great favorite of my father’s.” He focused on the pretty deaconess, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But in your case, the song itself doesn’t really matter. You’re the only real singer we’ve got.”
Leah laughed in surprise, suppressing her guilty pleasure at the sharpness of his comment. She found herself reddening, embarrassed by the attention she’d craved; she tucked her hands and arms deep inside the billowy sleeves of her choir robe, her hands clutching her bare white elbows. Her long, elegant neck dipped, and the color in her face made her look alive and young.