All teaching jobs in the city are taken until the fall except for some prestigious tutoring centers, that only have a few hours available a week and are located in lower Manhattan.
I get one offer and I brave the long commute for measly pay and teach basic concepts to spoiled rich kids who could not care less about anything that I have to say. When I come home and vent about them to Aurora, she gets defensive.
“You know what,” she says one evening. “I'm really tired of you talking like that. Is that what you think my childhood was like? Is that who you think I was?”
"No, not at all,” I say even though that's a lie.
I know that that's exactly how her parents were when she was little and that's probably how they told her to treat her tutors as well, as if they were there to serve her.
“I'm just very tired right now,” I say, trying to steer the conversation to something else. “How was your day?”
“I didn't go to class today,” she says.
“Really? How come?”
“I don't know,” she says, staring absentmindedly at her phone. “I didn't have work and I just didn't feel like going all the way down there.”
"Things are going to get better,” I say, trying to stay optimistic.
She turns to face me and gives me a blank stare. “How is that exactly? I mean, what's going to happen to make it better?”
I don't have an answer to that. “I think we just need to stay positive and not let this tear us apart.”
“Do you want to know what I think?" she asks. I nod.
“I think that we need to ask for help. I think it's about time that I go to my father and ask him to pay for our apartment.”
“No, absolutely not."
“Why not?
“Because they made it very clear that they want nothing to do with us.”
“No, they did not. They did not want me to see you. But that doesn't mean that they don't want to have a relationship with me.”
"So, what are you saying exactly?"
“I don't know what I'm saying. I'm very confused. All I know is that we need help and they are the only ones in a position to help. I mean, why are we doing this to ourselves? They love me and they would be freaking out if they knew the financial position that we are living in. They would have a heart attack if they saw this apartment. It’s as small as my mom’s shoe closet!”
“But what about what they said about me?” I ask quietly.
“I think that they're going to change their mind,” Aurora insists. “I have been absent long enough from their life and I think they're going to be happy just to hear from you again.”
I shake my head no.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn? Why can't you just give them a chance?”
“They never gave me a chance,” I insist.
She gets off of the sofa and goes to the tea kettle. She runs some water in it from the sink and then stands there and watches as it comes to a boil.
“I wasn't going to tell you this,” she says, pouring the hot water into her favorite blue cup, “but my mom has been giving me money for the last four months.”
“What?" I gasp.
“I should've told you earlier, but I just didn't want to make things more difficult. My mom has been helping us with money for a long time because the truth is… I haven't been working at the library.”
“How could you lie to me about that?” I whisper.
"Henry, they pay minimum-wage. I'm in my last year of the PhD program and I can't spend twenty hours a week working for so little so we can afford this ridiculously shitty apartment. I'm already commuting two hours each day and…”
The voice trails off.
I don't say anything for a while.
“Are you mad?” she asks.
“No, I'm not. I thought I would be, but I am actually disappointed,” I admit.
“Don't you understand that I have to finish my PhD? I've been working on it for years."
“Yes, I do understand. But I also understand that after all of these years, you have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, one that I will never be able to afford. It just makes me a little sad.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“What I'm talking about is that I don't think that we are ever going to be on the same page. You're never going to think that I make enough money. And whatever it is that I do make, you will never be happy with it.”
She shakes her head vigorously and promises that it’s not true.
Unfortunately, we both know that it is.
I can't compete with the world in which she was raised in. It's not like her parents were doctors or lawyers. She has had more in this life than most people can ever dream up or even imagine.
How stupid was I to assume that she would be willing to give all of that up for me?
“My mother has invited us to dinner," she says coldly. “I think they want to give it another chance to get to know you better. It's tomorrow night. Please say that you’ll go."
20
Aurora
We arrive at my parents’ apartment on Park Avenue, and their doorman lets us in. Edward has been working there ever since I can remember, and I think of him as a friend rather than an acquaintance or an employee.
I ask about his wife who has been battling cancer, which is now in remission, and his children, who my father has employed at Tate Media. They both attended state schools and submitted their resumes through the normal hiring process, but after my mother found out, she streamlined their hiring process.
“So, they're happy in their jobs?” I ask.
“Yes. Very happy. We are both so grateful to your parents.”
"Good, I'm glad to hear that,” I say, giving him another brief hug.
I haven't seen him for a while and I actually just realized how much I have missed him.
“So, this is the infamous Henry Asher?” Edward says. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
"Yes, you, too,” Henry says, shaking his hand.
“Well, I think we better be going, they're waiting for us,” I say, waving goodbye. As we ride up in the elevator, I wonder why my father was perfectly fine with giving Edward’s children positions at the company and has not extended the same courtesy to Henry.
I'm not familiar with the woman who answers the door as my mother goes through servants often. Very few make it longer than six months and a number of them barely survive a month. My father and I used to joke that my mother isn't actually interested in having a servant at home, but only has one because it is something that is expected of her.
“Thank you both for coming,” my mother says, giving me a brief hug and shaking Henry's hand.
She shows us through the sitting room into the living room, where my father is standing next to the built-in bar, putting together a drink menu.
After a brief hello, he asks Henry what he wants to drink and makes two scotches on the rocks. My mother and I opt for glasses of white wine. When I find a seat next to their roaring fireplace, I wonder if this is going to be strong enough.