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He had been in Lloyd for twelve years and had never felt that it was his home. Lloyd's students all seemed to be the children of Puritans, senators, or oil tycoons. When the class did genealogical research, he would pretend to have forgotten the assignment, unwilling to draw his own complicated family tree. "Don't ask me questions." He silently prayed in his mind as the teacher wrote down a red zero next to his name. He drafted an "American culture study plan" by himself - listening to the radio, reading comics, saving pocket money to watch two back-to-back movies, and learning the rules of new board games - just in case people asked him, "Hey, did you listen to Red yesterday?" "Is Skelton's show gone?" or "Want to play Monopoly?" However, no one had ever asked him that. As he grew older, he never went to dances, pep rallies, or junior or senior dances. If he was lucky, girls would smile at him in the hallway; if not, they would stare at him as he passed and snicker when he turned a corner. James's graduation yearbook printed a "photo" of him and the big shot: he was standing in the student line to welcome President Truman, and his head appeared between the shoulders of the life committee member and a girl who later married Belgium prince. Although his ears usually turn red due to shyness, from the photo, they are unnaturally gray, and his mouth is slightly open, as if he was caught trespassing. After entering college, he hoped that the situation would improve. However, after seven years of studying at Harvard—four years as an undergraduate and three years as a graduate student, the situation had not changed at all. He accidentally studied the most typical American cultural topic - cowboys - but never told his parents or relatives. He only knew a few acquaintances and had no friends, and his habit of sitting unsteadily in his chair remained unchanged, as if someone would come over and chase him away at any time.
So in the autumn of 1957, when the beautiful honey-haired girl Marilyn kissed him across the desk, threw herself into his arms and got into his bed, James couldn't believe it was true. He always felt like a dream. A phantom feeling. After the two spent their first afternoon together in his small, white-painted one-room apartment, he was struck by how well their bodies matched each other. The tip of her nose could be buried in the small pit between his collarbones, and the curve of her cheekbones perfectly matched the lines on the side of his neck, like two hemispheres die-cast from the same mold. He studied the contours of her hips and calves with a sculptor's eye, his fingertips lightly brushing against her skin. During sex, even her hair seemed to be alive, changing from golden wheat color to deep amber, and the twisted and curly shapes were like ferns. He was amazed that he could have such an impact on another person. When she dozed in his arms, her hair would slowly relax, and when she woke up, it would resume its original undulations, and then her lively laughter would echo in the simple white room. When she chattered or panted, her hands would flutter back and forth until he caught them and snuggled up to her quietly and warmly like a tired bird returning to its roost. After a while, she would pull him into her arms again, making him suddenly realize how lucky he was that America had opened its arms to him. He was even afraid that one day, the God of the universe would think that they should not be together and take her away, or that she would realize that falling in love with him was wrong and disappear as suddenly as she suddenly broke into his life. Over time, this fear became a habit.
He began to guess what she was thinking and made changes she might like: a haircut; he bought a blue-striped Oxford shirt from a passerby after she complimented it on him. (But his lock of hair remained stubbornly erect, and years later, Nas and Hannah would inherit this feature.) One Saturday, at Marilyn's suggestion, he bought two gallons of light yellow paint and pushed the furniture Go to the middle of the apartment, cover the parquet floor with old clothes and start painting the walls. The whole room gradually became as bright as a sunlit window pane. After finishing their work, they opened all the windows and lay down on the bed in the center of the room. The apartment was so small, with the walls only a few feet away from them, and surrounded by tables, chairs, cupboards, and sofas, that he felt as if they were on an island or floating on the sea. Marilyn lay on his shoulder and let him kiss her, her arms wrapped around his neck and her body pressed against his. Every time we get together like this, it's nothing short of a small miracle.
In the evening, he woke up from the fading light and found a yellow spot on Marilyn's toe. He scanned the room and found a scratch on the wall near the foot of the bed - it turned out that when they had sex, Marilyn's foot touched the wall and rubbed off a dime-sized piece of paint. He didn't tell Marilyn. When they pushed the furniture back into place, the wardrobe just blocked the scratches on the wall. Therefore, whenever he saw that wardrobe, he would feel happy. His eyes seemed to be able to penetrate the pine drawers and the folded clothes inside and see the mark left by her body in his space.
By Thanksgiving, Marilyn decided not to return to Virginia. The reason she gave James and herself was that the journey home was too far for a short vacation, but in fact, she was afraid that her mother would ask about her future, and this time, she didn't know how to answer. So she chose to bake a chicken, potato wedges and peeled yams on a small tray in James's small kitchen, making a miniature Thanksgiving meal. James had never cooked for himself. He was accustomed to eating burgers from Charlie's and English waffles from Hayes-Bickford, so he could only watch Marilyn cook in awe. Marilyn stuffed the basted chicken into the oven, closed the door, and took off her gloves.
"My mother was a home economics teacher," she said, "Betty Crocker was her goddess." This was the first time she talked about her mother to him, and her tone was as if she was telling a secret that had been buried deep for a long time. , now I can finally tell it to someone I trust.
James wanted to repay her trust—it was a personal gift. He once vaguely mentioned that his parents worked in a school, hoping she would think they were teachers. He never described to Marilyn what the school kitchen looked like—it was like walking into a giant's house, where everything was huge: rows of tinfoil rolls half a mile long, mayonnaise bottles big enough for his head. . His mother's job was to break huge things into small pieces, such as slicing melons, dividing butter into small dishes, etc. He also never told anyone that his mother was reluctant to throw away the leftovers and take them home, which was unanimously laughed at by the other cooks. When he gets home, his parents will ask him questions while waiting for the food to be heated: What did you learn in geography class? What did you learn in math class? He would answer: "Montgomery is the capital of Alabama" and "Prime numbers have only two factors." Although they don't understand what their son is saying, the parents will nod and are happy that their son has learned something they don't know. While talking, he would crush crackers and throw them into celery soup, or peel off the wax paper from a cheese sandwich while thinking about his day at school. In fifth grade, he stopped speaking Chinese to his parents because he was afraid of having an accent when speaking English. Before that, he had stopped speaking to his parents in school. He was afraid to tell Marilyn these things, fearing that if he told the truth, she would see him as he had always seen him - a skinny outcast who grew up eating leftovers, could only memorize texts and take exams, and was an impostor. He was afraid that after she formed this impression, she would never change her opinion of him.
“Both my parents are gone,” he said. “They died when I went to college.”
During his sophomore year, his mother died of a brain tumor, and six months later, his father also passed away. The doctor said the cause of death was complications from pneumonia, but James knew the truth. His father just didn't want to live alone.
Marilyn said nothing, but she stretched out her hands and held his face in her hands. James vaguely felt that her soft palms had the warmth of the leftovers from those years. Although the oven timer rang quickly and Marilyn had to go over to check, the moment just now was enough to warm James' heart. He thought of his mother's hands - scarred by steam and calloused by scrubbing pots - and he wanted to kiss the soft depression in Marilyn's palm where the life line and the love line met. He swore to himself that he would never let his hands grow thicker or harder. When Marilyn took the glistening roast chicken out of the stove, he was completely fascinated by her dexterity. The sauce was evenly thick and just right, and the potatoes were cooked as soft as cotton. Like magic. When the two married a few months later, they made a pact: Let bygones be bygones, stop asking questions, and look forward, never backward.
That spring, Marilyn was making plans for her senior year; James had finished his Ph.D. and was looking forward to being accepted into the university's history department—there was an opening and he had applied. And the head of the department, Professor Carlson, has hinted that James is by far the best student in his class. But just in case, he was interviewing everywhere—New Haven, Providence. But deep down, he was convinced that he would be accepted to Harvard. "Carlson almost told me outright that I would stay here," he would tell Marilyn every time the topic came up. Marilyn would nod, kiss him, and refuse to think about herself next year. What will happen after graduation, who knows where she will go to medical school. Harvard, she thought, ticking the boxes with her fingers. Colombia. Johns Hopkins. Stanford. It is impossible to compare one school with another.
Then, in April, two unexpected things happened. Professor Carlson told James that he was very, very sorry to inform him that the department had decided to admit his classmate William McPherson. Of course, they knew James would find plenty of opportunities elsewhere. "Did they explain why?" Marilyn asked. James replied: "They said I wasn't the right person." So Marilyn never brought up the topic again. Four days later, an even bigger surprise arrived: Marilyn was pregnant.