The guests looked among themselves.
“Get out of my way,” Joseph said.
“Sir—”
Joseph cocked his head, and a quizzical expression crossed his face. What he felt was disbelief. He thought, This boy wants to die by my hands.
Seeing Joseph’s look, Douglas moved closer to Jay and put his hand on Jay’s elbow to pull him back.
“Sir—it’s a privilege to meet you.” Jay’s voice grew louder—all pleasantness in his tone having vanished. The table stared at the boy in shock. It was not acceptable for a younger person to speak this way to someone of Joseph’s age.
Joseph exhaled through his nostrils. He had to remind himself where he was. “Excuse me.”
Jay remained still.
Joseph took a long breath, then raised his right hand. In one quick beat, he threw a powerful shove against the boy’s left shoulder. Jay stumbled back but did not fall. The guests gasped, but Joseph was gone. If he had stayed, he would’ve murdered the boy.
Douglas patted Jay’s back to calm him. Jay turned to Casey, but her eyes were shut; she was like a child attempting to make a room disappear. Leah covered her mouth with her hands. She didn’t know if Joseph would return for her, not realizing that her husband hadn’t taken the car. He was already outside, walking up Queens Boulevard toward the 7-Eleven. He went to buy cigarettes—his first pack in twenty-three years.
Ella had missed it. She’d been greeting guests herself when the banquet manager told her it was time for the father-daughter dance. She’d come to get Douglas herself. When she got to her father’s table, no one was talking. The first person she saw seated was Leah, her face pale, her hands held over her nose like a mask. The deejay was playing disco music still, but for their dance he’d play “The Best Is Yet to Come.”
“Daddy, we’re supposed to dance,” she said, glancing at Casey and Jay, who looked dumb with shock. “Hi, Casey. What’s the matter?”
Casey shook her head, saying nothing.
Douglas patted Jay again, then turned to take Ella’s hand.
They headed to the parquet dance floor. When their song started, he led her through a respectable fox-trot learned from an Arthur Murray dance instructor.
There was no time to apologize or explain. Casey and Jay left without eating their dinner.
During the cab ride going home, Jay kept repeating, “Unbelievable.” He was hoping Casey would talk, but she didn’t. Here and there she nodded, and at one point she said, “I’m sorry, Jay,” but nothing more. When Casey was sad, it was impossible to pull her out of her silence. Usually he’d talk until she chimed in, but when it was something serious, he’d wait it out. He almost preferred it when she was angry because at least she’d talk—shout, even—but this quiet thing was hard. He had no clue as to what she was thinking. By nature, Casey was impulsive, and though overall she was funny and good-natured, by now he knew that she was always sorting through other things beneath whatever she was doing or saying. Casey was complicated, and most of the time, he liked it. But what did she mean by sorry?
At home, they changed out of their clothes. She removed her wedding makeup and the bobby pins in her hair. In the hot shower, she tried to think of what she could tell Ella when she finally reached her. She had wanted to see Ella in her hanbok for the pae-baek ceremony, where she’d bow to Ted’s mother. She was supposed to have helped her change, too. It was awful, what had happened. Ella’s friendship was valuable to Casey. Her goodness had trumped Casey’s childhood envy after all. But Casey had walked out on her wedding reception. Her father had behaved like a thug, and Jay. . . Oh, Jay. He’d been ridiculous. When something went wrong, the first emotion Casey touched was shame. But here, the shame was below the surface. It was deep and vast. There was no way out of this, she thought.
When she came out of her shower, Jay was in bed reading Wallace Stevens. He read poetry when he was unhappy. Casey smiled at him, feeling sorry for both of them. She was sad, too. In the taxi, she had said the truest thing she felt inside. She was so sorry—about not having introduced him earlier, about her father pushing him, about all those people witnessing him being shoved around, about everything—her family’s disgrace at a dear friend’s important day. On top of shame, there was always remorse.
“I’m going upstairs. For a cigarette,” she said.
“You’re wearing your bathrobe, honey.” He laughed. “And jammies.”