Orphans

2

2 As the sun slowly comes up over Kanas Lake, orange and runny, like a cosmic egg yolk spreading across the sky, I arrive back home. The automated 24-hour doorman meets me as I walk into my building. We live in a high-rise in what used to be known as the Gold Coast neighborhood in what used to be known as the city of Chicago. It was known as the second city then, but things change, and with loans past due and naming rights one of the few options left, the neighborhood is now known as Sector Six, or Lee-Oh, in all legally binding documents, and Happiness in the real estate ads. The city itself is now known as Baidu, though people still meet at Jiaboa Plaza on the first Thursday of each month to protest the name change. “What up, E.C.,” I say to the doorman—“E.C.” being short for “electronic concierge,” so lifelike and yet not: too perfect, too polite, always happy and, even with advances, ultimately robotic in manner. E.C. is parked behind a stainless steel desk, which sits on a stainless steel floor and is surrounded by stainless steel walls. It was all once slick and modern, but now it’s dull with no hope of being anything but that. “Hello Mr. Radd, how are you sir?” E.C. asks. “Please don’t call me sir,” I say, “Norrin is fine.” “Yes sir,” E.C. responds. “What do I need to know?” I ask. “Well sir,” E.C. says looking down at the console on the front desk, “Joey is awake and watching television in the living room and Shalla is still asleep.” O R P H A N S 4 “Yeah, how does she look?” I ask, thinking about how stunning Shalla is to watch as she sleeps, her cocoa hued skin nearly glowing and her long, dirty-blonde hair flowing across the pillows like a vision from another world. “Pardon sir?” E.C. asks. “Never mind, I’m going to run upstairs now.” “Excellent sir,” E.C. says, “and would you like me to start your coffee?” “Please, it’s been a long night.” As I ride up on the elevator the Xinhua News Agency news splashes across the back of the door. Not that I pay attention. Work, family, debt, work, family, it’s all I care about now. I walk down the hall to the apartment and quietly open the door so as not to startle Joey. I walk into the living room and watch him as he watches television, seeing a small grin creeping across his beautiful still waking-up face, his caramel skin soft and flawless, his honey-colored hair sticking-up in a dozen directions, his little arms and legs splayed across the couch and poking out from his almost too small Sanmao pajamas. Joey yawns and as he stretches his arms he notices that I am watching him. “Daaaaaaaaaaady!” he screams, throwing his arms in front of him gesturing for a hug. I bury my face in his awesome five-year-old neck and nuzzle him there until he pushes me away. I quickly wipe away the tears that have appeared with such a sudden ferocity and take a long look at him. The idea that Shalla and I could have created something as perfect as this child nearly breaks my heart. It’s at these moments that I remember why I am doing the things I do, so that he can have a different, better life than I have had and will have. I am also reminded though that it is moments like this 5 B E N TA N Z E R that make parenting possible, that while parenting can feel like a trap and is so often fraught with anger, pain and frustration there are moments like this—sporadic bursts of joy and peace and love—that cancel out all of the other stuff. “What did you get me?” Joeys asks shaking me free from my embarrassing reverie. “What did I get you—what makes you think I got you something?” I say smiling. “You have to,” he says. “I do, why?” I ask. “Because you’re the dad, and dads get things, it’s your job, duh,” he responds. “Oh, I thought my job was protecting you from monsters , but okay, how does some astronaut ice...