Year of the Tiger

‘You have lunch? I was gonna get a burger. They make good ones here.’

‘Thought you were on a health kick,’ I mutter.

Trey grins and pats his gut. He’s got a bit of one, but it’s not bad. The truth is, he’s the one who looks good. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, all the better to minimize his slowly receding hairline. He’s tan; his muscles strain the sleeves of his T-shirt. ‘Yeah, well, you gotta make exceptions sometimes, you know?’

I look away. I just can’t meet his eyes. ‘What do you want, Trey?’

‘Some lunch, right now.’ He raises his arm to flag down the waitress. ‘Xiaojie!’ he shouts.

The waitress – a cute little thing who gives Trey the eye – comes over. Trey orders his burger. I’m in one of those moods where nothing sounds good and I don’t know what I want, but I figure I’d better eat something. For one thing, Trey’s paying, and I like making him pay.

‘Spaghetti,’ I finally decide. The Chinese invented it, right? ‘And a Yanjing beer.’

‘No Yanjing. Have Qingdao.’

‘So how you been, Ellie?’ Trey asks, after my beer arrives.

‘Fine. You?’

‘I’m good.’ He stares at me with the utmost sincerity. ‘I really am.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ And then, because I can’t help myself, I say: ‘So, how’s … what’s her name? Ping Li?’

‘Li Ping,’ he corrects me. In point of fact, I knew that. ‘Or Lily, if you like. She’s good, Ellie. Really good.’

I nod.

Trey leans forward, his green eyes glowing. ‘She’s come to Jesus,’ he says huskily. ‘I feel like a part of me’s been reborn with her.’

I chug my beer. ‘That’s just swell, Trey.’

He shakes his head. He looks so sad. ‘Look, I fucked up. I could keep apologizing forever, and that’s not gonna make it up to you. You want to hate me; I get it. But don’t hold what I did against Jesus. It’s not His fault.’

While my loss of faith is not the last thing I feel like discussing, it makes the top-ten list for sure.

‘Why are we talking about this? I mean, what’s Jesus got to do with … with anything right now?’

‘Because He can help you.’ Trey reaches across the table, rests his hand on mine. ‘I know you’re hurting. You’re in the desert, Ellie. But there’s water for you. All you have to do is drink it.’

Oh, if I only could. If I could only sink back into that warm, comfortable place, back when I could feel that glow, that love, that connection and certainty.

And the thrill. That smell of his, the wedge of his triceps, the look in his eyes.

I can’t help it. I still want him.

‘You are so full of it.’ I yank my hand away. ‘What would Jesus say about you dumping me for her? About you fucking her when you’re married to me!’

‘We’re all sinners,’ he says intensely. ‘That’s the point. And I told you what the bottom line was for me. I need to be with somebody who wants to live a Christ-centered life. And you’ve left that, Ellie. You’ve left that, and nothing I can say makes a difference. So what am I supposed to do? I can’t live without it. I just can’t.’

For a moment we stare at each other.

‘Okay,’ I finally say. ‘Okay. We’ve had this discussion how many times? You wanna live with little Miss Come to Jesus, that’s fine. You wanna get divorced, that’s fine with me too. But you know what I want, Trey. You know it. Give me what I want, and I’ll sign anything you want me to sign.’

Trey leans back in his chair. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. I think I got it figured out.’

At that moment, two things happen almost at once. Two foreign men in suits approach our table. ‘Mr Cooper, Mrs Cooper,’ one of them says in an American accent. They sit. And the waitress brings us our food.

‘Parma-san?’ she chirps.

‘Hey, guys.’ Trey flashes his smile at them.

I just sit there, staring at the mass of coiled noodles, which suddenly don’t look like something I much want to eat.

‘Mrs Cooper, sorry if we startled you earlier,’ Suit #1 says.

I don’t say anything. I twirl a forkful of spaghetti, and I eat it. Not bad, actually. Good noodles. ‘Yes,’ I tell the waitress. ‘Please bring parmesan.’

Suit #1 leans forward. He’s the younger of the duo, a wiry guy with wide eyes and an earnest expression. ‘We’re not here to cause you any problems.’

I take another bite of spaghetti. It tastes okay, but it’s going down like glue. ‘So why are you here?’ I ask.

‘Ellie –’ Trey begins, all concerned and placating, but Suit #2 cuts him off.

‘The Uighur. Hashim Abdullaabduzehim.’

I have to think about this for a moment. ‘Abdulla … ?’

‘Abdullaabduzehim,’ Suit #2 repeats impatiently. He’s a half dozen years older, a couple inches taller, and a whole lot bulkier than Suit #1, with heavy-rimmed glasses, a bristling mustache, and a scary edge. The bad cop, apparently.

I decide it’s best not to say anything. I focus on twirling the perfect forkful of noodles and sauce, braced against my spoon.

‘You met him, right?’

Why is it so hard to get the right amount of noodles on your fork? You either end up with a few pathetic strands or half the bowl.

‘I meet a lot of people,’ I finally say. ‘So what?’

Suit #1 puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. ‘Mrs Cooper, it’s very important that you tell us anything you can about Mr Abdullaabduzehim.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Abdullaabduzehim is a known associate of Islamic extremists who plan to carry out attacks against American interests.’

‘Against people like your former comrades-in-arms,’ Suit #2 says. He sounds pissed. ‘If you still give a shit about them.’

I put down my fork. ‘You know what? Fuck you.’

‘Mrs Cooper …’ Suit #1 sighs. ‘I know you’ve had a rough time. We wouldn’t intrude on your privacy if it weren’t extremely important. Mr Carter here …’ He stares at me, those wide eyes of his suddenly seeming like a cartoon of sympathy. ‘Mr Carter gets impatient.’