I couldn’t tell what game he was playing at, if he was playing at a game. I had mentioned that Vladimir had come by in passing because of the book, but I didn’t know if John perceived the jolt that he had given me those nights before. Still, imagining the afternoon filled me with elation. The thought of seeing Vladimir Vladinski in my backyard, even with his wife and daughter, of seeing him shy and embarrassed taking his shirt off to reveal his slightly flabby stomach, to see him clad in some hastily bought swim trunks, to pass him a sweating beer or, even better, to serve him a beer as he lay in a cabana chair, to see him bouncing on the diving board, not yet ready to jump in the pool, to see him lifting his daughter into the sky, to observe him in moments of banality—rubbing zinc sunscreen in on his face or hesitating at the door because of wet feet—filled me with yearning. A succession of images, each more tender and intimate, flashed through my mind.
“It would be nice of us to entertain them,” I said, hoping that John wouldn’t notice anything off about the way I spoke. “Better do it soon though. This weekend, or else it will be too cold. Saturday is supposed to be warm.”
“Fine with me,” he said, maybe with suspicion, or maybe simply pleased that I had given in so easily.
“There are a few things I’d want you to do in the yard first,” I said.
“Jesus,” he said. “Fine. Make a list.”
“That compost bin has got to go.”
“Make a list,” he repeated. “I’ll do them if I can—”
“Then I’ll just hire someone to do them.”
“I’ll do them. I should have known this would result in my doing labor for you.” But he was pleased with me, I could tell.
“When you ask them, give Cynthia my number and we’ll coordinate on food.”
He nodded. He said my name and I looked up at him. “I miss you,” he said, and then turned to leave.
In the doorway he passed Aaron—our lanky, earnest, English Department assistant—bringing me some copies I had requested. At the sight of my husband, Aaron bowed his head and placed the stack of manuscripts on my desk with an unintelligible murmur. I thanked him and asked him how he was. I liked Aaron, he was a sweet senior boy who wrote lengthy, baroque poems about the cosmologies of invented fantasy realms. He didn’t answer, and exited wordlessly, his chin pressed to his chest, breathing heavily through his nose, as though he had caught John and me half-dressed, amid some illicit act of concupiscent commingling.
III.
Vladimir agreed that they would come on Saturday and then texted to ask me what they could bring. I felt ashamed. Clearly John had mentioned for Cynthia to text me about food, and Vladimir had responded because he and his wife didn’t occupy the same outdated gender roles that John and I did. I asked if they had dietary restrictions. He said none, which was a relief, I had gone through a nervous set of hours when I wondered if he would say something like vegetarian, and I would have to find the time to test out recipes. I told him they could bring something sweet if they liked—that we would have everything else—that we would grill if that was all right with him, and would it be okay if we had lemonade on hand for his daughter, and did she need floaties, we could borrow them, and what did Cynthia like to drink? He said yes to the lemonade, no to the floaties, and said that Cynthia didn’t drink but didn’t mind everyone else drinking. Then he sent a follow-up text:
Cynthia wants to know if we should bring our own towels?
I thought about the domestic politics that must have gone into that text exchange. I could see them sitting, wherever they were, their daughter banging a spoon on the table. I could hear Vladimir saying, “I don’t think we need to,” and Cynthia, sober Cynthia, taking the spoon out of their daughter’s hand and saying, “Just ask her, please,” and him saying something like, “Why don’t you text her,” and her responding, “Because you’re the one texting now,” and him saying something like, “You were the one who was supposed to text,” and her picking up their daughter and raising her eyebrows at him and saying, “Just ask her, please. For me,” and his threat—“All right, but I’m going to say you’re the one who asked.”
Or maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Maybe they were in complete synchronization. Maybe she had said, “Do you think we need to bring towels?” and he had said, “I’ll ask her,” and in deference to the fact that she had been the one to come up with the question in the first place he had given her the credit.
I’d responded, Nope, we’ve got plenty! Looking forward to seeing you. I spent a few seconds rearranging the punctuation, moving the exclamation point from the you to the plenty and back again.
By Friday I had finished Vladimir’s book and read every review （including the painful and abusive ones from Amazon and Goodreads） that I could locate online. Like most books that are full with tone, the last third was not as compelling as the beginning, but the final chapter, and final paragraph especially, was masterful, and shifted me, so that I sat in the library, tears in my eyes, wishing I could put my head down on the table and sob. There was a part of our campus that connected to a network of hiking trails and I stumbled toward them and walked, looking intently at the changing root structures below my feet, letting the spell of the book gradually wear off, like the buzz of an afternoon drink fades into the responsibilities of early evening.
The whole day prior to their arrival I was pulsing with anticipation. I found, but didn’t read, pieces of Cynthia Tong’s memoir, published in Prairie Schooner and The Kenyon Review. After my last class on Friday, possessed, but feeling all the while like a fool, I went to a local spa and visited a masseuse for an anti-cellulite massage and a leg spray tan. It was a long, stupid, awkward process, and I despised myself the whole time. The woman who massaged my legs wanted to impress very firmly that nothing could be done about my cellulite. I waited for thirty minutes in a dark room before I emerged and checked in with the receptionist and found I was in the wrong place for the application of the spray tan. I waited another thirty minutes, because the technician had moved on to another client before I saw her, and then was scolded for shaving rather than waxing.
I didn’t understand why I booked those appointments. I couldn’t really afford them （when the bill came to 217 dollars without tip I felt nauseated）， and it was not as though I was in the habit of getting them. It wasn’t as though I thought I could become more alluring; it was more that I wanted to erect a fortress around my body—a fortress of care and grooming. A fortress of corporeal dignity. I utterly failed, however. The tan came out dark and orange, there was no discernable difference in my cellulite, and, deeply regretting the idiotic amount of money I’d spent, I resolved to wear pants and refrain from going in the water.
After my appointment I took nearly two hours shopping at several different markets in town before I had gathered all the ingredients and drinks I needed for the following day. I was in the kitchen concocting a pickling brine for the stalks of daikon and carrot when John arrived home.
“What’s all this?” He picked up the lemongrass and smelled it.