Audio: Joseph O’Neill reads.
Icame to this country—from Ireland, at the age of twenty-three—unaware of the existence of mentors. I’m certain that I had never heard the word “mentee.” The words in Ireland were not exactly the same as the words in America. When a classmate told me that she was going to meet her “mentor,” I had to ask her to explain. In America, she informed me, there was a social practice in which an older, experienced person donated time and knowledge to a younger, relatively foolish person in order to help the latter better understand the world’s perils and pathways. I was filled with a suspicion that bordered on disbelief. I probably said, “Ah, go away.” Ireland has changed, everyone tells me, and maybe this sort of suspiciousness is no longer current. I doubt it, however.
I audited an undergraduate class in anthropology. I needed a break from the dreariness and difficulty of my master’s degree, which was in applied analytics. The class was titled Animals & People. The pet, the pest, the hunting asset, livestock, the endangered animal: we investigated the social and ideological aspects of these phenomena. I found it interesting. I may not have been an anthropologist, but I did own a kitten. The professor whose class this was, Paola Visintin, became my mentor.
Let me say that Paola was my elder by almost twenty years but was cool in a way that made professors closer to me in age seem gauche and youthless. Her style was important to me. She was thin, of course. She wore her brown hair in a slightly scruffy shoulder-length cut, with bangs, and she casually wore clothes by Martin Margiela—including a deconstructed gray wool jacket that I thought about for years with a feeling of bitter loss. Margiela, a recluse of great mystique, was rumored to be Paola’s personal friend, and that was about the coolest thing possible. Mystique was important to me at that time, and some nationalities had more mystique than others. Paola was Italian, from Trieste—a city, she once suggested to me, that still belonged to an invisible Austria-Hungary. She was left-wing to a degree that seemed almost unlawful. She emanated a worldliness in which significant intellectual and sexual powers converged. She spoke with a strong and beautiful Italian accent. She was unafraid.
Our relationship began when I asked if it would be O.K. for me, a mere auditor, to see her during “office hours” (another new concept). She agreed, on the condition that we meet at a coffee shop on West 141st Street. This was near her apartment, the precise location of which, it was somehow understood, would never be mine to know. Of course, I found out. We met about six times over the course of two years, always at my instigation, always at the same coffee shop. We sat at a particular table in the smoking section. I was honored that she made time to see me, and I speculated that the honor had to do with a shared European identity. Paola seemed to be well disposed toward Ireland, a country, she once told me, that was incomparably supplied with rainbows. Exactly what we discussed I no longer recall, but I have a surviving sense of the excitement I felt when travelling to those meetings from Brooklyn. Many quandaries and crossroads characterized my life in those days, and I took pleasure in telling Paola about them. There was a lot to talk about, it seemed to me. I had not yet found a career, or love, or a home, or money.
Simply to think about the foregoing—all of it, even the departure from Ireland—for some reason fills me with shame.
The meeting that I think about was our last one.
Paola was already at the coffee shop when I arrived. She immediately asked, “What has happened?”
With tears in my eyes, I outlined the events of the night before. Certain details were too embarrassing and awful to relate, especially the details of how I’d come to find myself in the situation that produced what had happened, details that made me furious not only at my personal weakness but also at my naïve and counterproductive upbringing in rural County Limerick.
Paola wasn’t one to offer solutions. Her conversational practice was austere and consistent: she listened, she asked specific questions, and she took seriously what one had to say. When she lit a cigarette, it usually meant that she was about to offer her thoughts. These were always brief. She seemed to have disdain for her own opinions. More than once she cast doubt on the very idea of wisdom, which made her seem wiser than ever.
Therefore I put my question to her with no real expectation of receiving an answer. “Should I report him?” I asked.
“Report?”
“Yes,” I said. “To the authorities.”
“The authorities?” I had the impression that a private joke was passing through her thoughts. “I have a better idea, Clodagh,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Now, listen to me very carefully.” She looked squarely into my eyes. “Are you listening?” I nodded. She had never been so definite. She said, “Get over it.”
My kitten grew into a cat, turned into an old lady, died. The obstetrician lifted a red-blue creature from behind a blue paper curtain—and, flash, the creature, Aoife, turned eighteen. This last milestone was reached in the final semester of her senior year, in January.
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One Monday evening in February, my husband, Ian, became aware that our daughter was involved in a prolonged phone drama in her bedroom. He knocked on her door and went in. Aoife, who had been crying, told him that a boy at her school was harassing her. Harassing as in doing what? Ian asked. Aoife told him harassing as in direct-messaging her on Instagram after she’d told him more than once to stop, harassing as in following her around at school all day long and making her dread going anywhere. Following you around? Ian asked. Why? Dad, he’s obsessed, Aoife said. Ian asked Aoife if she wanted him to call the parents of this boy, James. Aoife told him that she did not want him to do that. I’ll take care of it, Aoife said. O.K., Ian said.
I was in Columbus, working, when Ian reported this conversation. I told him, “I don’t know any James. Keep an eye on her. I’ll handle it tomorrow.” By the time I landed in New York, early on Tuesday evening, there had been further developments. In the taxi home, I called Ian and learned that our daughter had not gone to school that day. She had contacted the school to explain her absence and stated that she felt fearful about going in so long as James Wang was there.
“James is James Wang?” I said.
The school had asked Aoife if she wished to file a complaint.
I said, “A complaint? What kind of complaint?”
“There’s a complaints procedure, apparently,” Ian said. “There are regulations.”
“Go on,” I said.
After consulting with a friend—
“Which friend?” I asked.
“Some friend, I don’t know,” Ian said.
“Go on,” I said. Ian didn’t keep track of the friends. I did. My money was on Mei.
—Aoife had told the school that, yes, she wished to file an official complaint for harassment and intimidation against James Wang. She wouldn’t go to school unless he was stopped.
I was nearly home. “I’ll talk to her,” I said.
“I’m not sure she wants to discuss it right now,” Ian said.
I have spent twenty years in business talking to people, almost all of them men, who have not wanted to talk to me or, if they have, then not about the things I’ve wanted to talk about. This skill of making people talk to me against their will comes in handy in relation to my daughter. Aoife is a sensible girl, a very good student, but she is headstrong and furtive about certain things, and sometimes the issue must be forced. The issue is almost always the same: what the facts of her life are, and what she is minded to do about those facts, and whether what she’s minded to do will or won’t serve her interests.
When I got home I said, “Where is she?”
Ian said, “She has some friends with her right now. In her bedroom.”
“Who?” I was hanging up my coat.
“Some girlfriends,” Ian said helplessly.
I knocked on Aoife’s door and went in. She and Mei and Sophie were sitting on the bed, backs to the wall, looking at Aoife’s phone. “Hey, guys,” I said.
The visitors understood me. After some demonstrative hugging, Mei and Sophie left.
I had wanted Aoife to tell me the facts, because I was sure that Ian had not been told the whole story, but when I sat down next to my daughter I took her into my arms and said, “I know, love, I know,” as if I already knew the facts.
Aoife’s guidance counsellor was Ms. Vincenzullo. I rang her that night. There was some difficulty getting hold of her private number, but I got there. I explained that Aoife was distressed and feared returning to school. Ms. Vincenzullo said that she was aware of the situation. I insisted that precautions be taken to protect our daughter. Ian was sitting nearby, listening. I told Ms. Vincenzullo that we, Aoife’s parents, would be watching the school very closely. I said this ominously. My experience has been that American institutions respond only to the danger of litigation. That is awful, if you think about it. I said to Ms. Vincenzullo, “An unsafe environment for our child is not an option.” That was my language.
“Aoife will be safe,” Ms. Vincenzullo said. “James will be absent for a while.”
The next day, Aoife went back to school. I offered to drive her there, but she said she would be O.K. She was right about that. The boy, James Wang, didn’t bother her again. The authorities had done their job.
For about ten years we had been using a nearby laundromat. Their full-service wash was efficient and, for a small extra charge, they would deliver clean, folded clothes to your home. If you were a regular customer, like our family, they’d stick a tag on your bag that said “V.I.P.”
The business was operated by a family from somewhere in the interior of China—I can’t remember the place they once told me. The husband was a cheerful simpleton who barked at customers in very basic English and played practical jokes with the laundry bags. The wife was obviously a lot smarter and spoke much better English. It seemed incredible that she was married to the husband, but needs must, I suppose. Even though I never asked them their names, I came to know the family well enough. They lived in an old tenement building just a block from ours. They employed various friends and relations, most intriguingly a teen-age girl—she had been farmed out to the couple, I suspected, as used to be common in Ireland—who gradually transitioned into a good-looking, mannish young person. If this had caused any major problems, I didn’t see it. These people had other things to worry about.
The couple had one child—a son. I met him when he was five or six years old. He’d sit under a table among laundry bags, absorbed by a gaming console. You’d see him there at all hours. His father told me that the boy was No. 1 in his class at math. That seemed unlikely, given that he always appeared to be in the laundromat, playing video games. But time proved the father right: a few years later, he proudly informed me that his son was the only student in his year to test into a specialized high school. I was thrilled. I had watched the lad grow up. I had seen him working the begloomed washing machines on sunny afternoons and, after he turned twelve, making weekend deliveries. How many times had I buzzed him up to our floor? A hundred? Two hundred? I had seen his parents working night and day for their boy. The laundromat stayed open from seven in the morning until ten at night, every day of the year save New Year’s Day. What a triumph for the family.
One Sunday, I stopped by the laundromat. The bag of whites we’d dropped off two weeks earlier hadn’t been delivered. I wanted to check up on it.
The laundromat presented a familiar and reassuring drama, with a double stroller occupied by a pair of oversized children, some harassed moms, a dishevelled man, and two hipsters. In the dimness at the back, behind a table piled high with bags, the mother and the trans or nonbinary young person were going through a basket heaped with clean brights. I surveyed the bags stacked up against the wall. When I didn’t see mine, I asked the mother, “The purple one?”
She whispered something to the young person, whose shortish black-and-purple hair had been fixed into cute little tufts. This person went into the storage room and brought out my sack. The tag on it said “V.I.P. $30.” When I got out my wallet, the mother made a gesture of refusal. “No—no money,” she said.
I was insistent, however. This was the first time that they’d failed to deliver as promised. That was hardly a reason not to pay.
The mother said, “No money. You don’t come back here again. Finished.” She stood with her hands clenched at her sides.
I didn’t understand. I looked to the young person for guidance, but the person was examining me as if I were the curious specimen.
“Your family bad to my son,” the mother said. “Please get out now.”
“Your son?” I said. What was she talking about?
“You know my son—James,” the mother said.
“James?” I said—and, to my horror, I understood.
Unconsciously I had slung my bag over my shoulder. Now it was too heavy. I put it down. I said, “I didn’t know. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” I wished I knew her name. Then I realized that I did know her name. “Mrs. Wang,” I said, “I didn’t know.”
“I tell the school, This big year for college. Grades important. James study hard. I tell the school, James sixteen. Junior. Doesn’t know girls. Not one kiss. The school not listen. Suspend him.” More aggressively Mrs. Wang went on, “Your daughter senior. Eighteen years old. Grades done. College application done. Everything easy.” I tried to reply, but she kept going. James’s grades had crashed. He was shunned by his friends. He didn’t want to go back to school. They took him to a doctor, and the doctor said he was suicidal. “What we do now?” she said to me. “You tell me what we do now.”
Her husband peeked out from behind the screen at the very back, then hid again.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Wang,” I said.
The mother smiled bitterly. “Easy to say.”
These things have a limit. The mother had every right to be upset, but I was not going to be forced into a conversation of this kind. “James will be fine,” I said. “You’ll see.” I hoisted my bag over my shoulder like Santa.
“Your family finished here,” Mrs. Wang said. “I protect James.”
The bag was heavier than ever. After a short block, the muscles in my hands and fingers burned. I put the bag down and called Aoife.
I could tell from her voice that she’d been sleeping. “It’s noon,” I said. “Up, please.”
She muttered something.
“Listen to me,” I said. “Why didn’t you say it was the boy from the laundromat who was bothering you?”
“I did tell you,” she lied.
“You told us it was James Wang. Why didn’t you say who he was?”
“I thought you knew,” she said. “Anyway, why does it matter?”
I said, “We could have sorted this out with his parents. We didn’t need to bring the school into it. We could have handled it family to family.”
Aoife said nothing.
“What happened to him, exactly? Was he suspended? Aoife? Hello?”
“What?” she said angrily.
“How long was he suspended for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, estimate.” I was raging. There were so many things I had to stop myself from saying to her.
“I don’t know, Mom,” she shouted. “Maybe two weeks. Mom, he’s a creep. He kept following me around. Not just at the school—around here, too. Ask Mei.”
“Tell me exactly what he did,” I said.
My daughter told me that James had been stalking her. He would hang around the subway station until she appeared and then get on the train with her, sometimes in the same car. He’d walk behind her on the way home, always keeping her in his sights, never overtaking her. He started to show up wherever she went at school—the hallways, the food truck where she bought lunch. He was always there, hanging around, staring at her. Aoife told him repeatedly to leave her alone, but he didn’t comply. He messaged her on Instagram, and after she blocked him he messaged her again from a friend’s account.
“How many messages?” I said.
“I don’t know, Mom. Two.”
“What did they say?”
“Just dumb stuff. ‘You’re pretty.’ ” She had raised her voice again. “This is someone who comes into my home, Mom.” One time, she told me, she had instructed James through the intercom to leave the washing in the lobby. When she went down to collect it, he was still there, waiting for her. According to Aoife, he had a very weird, threatening look in his eye. “He’s seen my bras, Mom,” she yelled through the phone. “He’s kept some of my panties, I know he has, there’s two at least that are missing. He’s a weirdo. He shouldn’t be working with people’s private things.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Thanks.” I know when my daughter is lying and when she isn’t. The missing-panties detail was absurd, but the rest of it added up. It didn’t add up to much, to my mind, because James was a child. He had feelings that he couldn’t understand or manage. The important thing was that I was informed. Information enables action.
Right there, on the sidewalk, I called Ms. Vincenzullo. It was a Sunday, but it couldn’t wait. That is my core skill, I believe: making phone calls promptly and persistently. It is a surprisingly rare skill. I left a message. I wasn’t optimistic about hearing back.
But Ms. Vincenzullo did ring back, right away. It took me by surprise. I hesitated to accept the call.
The action I’d had in mind was to advocate on behalf of James and to ask if the complaint could be struck from his record. But I knew how American organizations worked. It was a dark wood of decision trees. Either Aoife had had a well-founded grievance or she hadn’t. Either she would have to retract her complaint or the school would have to retract its decision. The school would not retract, and neither, I knew, would my daughter, nor would I advise her to. To admit to second thoughts would be to invite trouble.
Everything was a mess, everything was wrong. I didn’t answer Ms. Vincenzullo.
The laundry bag hadn’t grown any lighter. I had two blocks to go. Men and women were striding past me. Cars and trucks were hurtling down the avenue. I struggled onward. In Ireland, if I needed a lift, I had had only to raise a hand at the side of the lane and someone, usually a stranger, almost always a man, would stop and bring me closer to my destination.
When I got home, Aoife was ensconced in her bedroom. Later she emerged in order to leave the house and see friends. Ian came back in the early evening, bearing takeout. He set out the paper plates and split two pairs of chopsticks. He helped himself to a huge portion of everything. I joined him at the table but ignored the food. I said, “There’s something I need to tell you. I don’t know where to begin.” With that I began.
Afterward Ian said, “Jesus Christ—that’s the kid? He looks like he’s thirteen.”
Ian rarely sees me distraught. I don’t like it when he does.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s going to be O.K.”
He was asking me to fantasize. He was asking me to invent a world made up of different facts.
“We did what we had to do,” Ian bullishly continued. “We protected our daughter. What the school did or didn’t do—well, that’s the school’s business.”
This was American of him—the obsession with liability. I wanted to tell him, Either you do the right thing or you do the wrong thing.
But I said nothing. Some things can’t be usefully discussed. At nine o’clock, I went to bed. Later that week, Ian found us a new laundromat. Later that year, Aoife got into Wesleyan. In the fall, we drove her up to Middletown in a rented van big enough to accommodate her bicycle and her mini-fridge and her cello.
We had a client in Albany. It was my job to travel up there once or twice a month. I went by train, along the Hudson River. The three-hour journey goes by quickly, because the river is always differently beautiful. I like it best on those still, gray mornings when you raise your eyes from your laptop and the water is as tranquil as the floor of a palace. The return trip, especially in the winter dark, feels long and dreary. I usually try to get more work done.
I was at the Albany station one night in early March, waiting for the train, when I saw a figure in an ankle-length wool coat and a wool pompom hat standing alone at the end of the platform. She was smoking a cigarette. Then the Maple Leaf, come all the way from Toronto, arrived with lights blazing and two conductors gallantly teetering in open doorways. The figure slowly approached, hands held behind her back, contemplating the ground. She was content to be the last passenger to board. I knew that silhouette from somewhere. Looking more closely, I saw the face of Paola Visintin.
A train car’s small staircase fell out with a thud. I sprang up the metal steps and turned left and kept going down the aisle until I reached the front of the train. I didn’t want her to see me. I believe that I was embarrassed about what I’d turned into—a middle-aged, slightly overweight American woman in business attire, with no mystique and no Margiela. This wasn’t an ordinary emotion for me. My self-accusations are usually about day-to-day failings. I have no large regrets about what I have made of my life. It is a worthwhile life. It is a worthwhile body, too.
Soon my panic was replaced by a contrary feeling: a euphoric, almost romantic desire to talk with Paola. Contemporaneously I understood that what I wanted wasn’t only to reconnect with my old mentor but to inhabit the self I had been when I was Irish and young. This was also unusual. Looking backward isn’t a trait of mine. It requires a kind of courage that I don’t have and don’t want.
Hastily I Googled Paola and learned that she had left Columbia, currently taught at suny Albany, and had published a book titled “The Urbane” (2007). Then I got to my feet and walked along the aisle, scanning the passengers to my left and right. They had come from mythic upstate places—Syracuse, Rome, Utica—and yet here they sat like ordinary twenty-first-century mortals, watching movies or trying to sleep. I reached the café car. Paola sat alone at a table, reading a book in French. Her free hand held a bottle of beer.
I continued to the bar, got a drink, and came back. “May I sit here?” I said.
Paola glanced upward and said, “Of course.”
Her hair was darker than ever, but finer and cut a little shorter. Silver roots gleamed at the parting. She wore a black cashmere sweater and a bracelet made of large gold links. Her face had the wrinkles of a long-term smoker. She was thin, thin. She hadn’t recognized me.
I stirred my double Bloody Mary with self-confidence. I said joyfully, “Paola, it’s me. Clodagh.”
Paola looked up from her book. She removed her reading glasses. She was having difficulty placing me. “Ah, yes—Clodagh.”
“How are you, Paola?”
With a wry motion of the eyes and mouth, she signalled that everything was as well as could be expected. She said, “So how has your life turned out?”
I laughed. It was a thrilling question from a thrilling questioner. To answer Paola, to hear myself narrate how things had gone for me, made my life seem coherent and adventurous. The scene felt charmed. Our conversation on a speeding and brilliant Amtrak train was linked, as distant events are linked in a folktale, to those long-ago conversations on 141st Street. Somewhere south of Rhinecliff, I offered to buy the drinks. Paola pointed at the remnants of my Bloody Mary and said, “I’ll have one of those.” I was proud. I had influenced her.
When I returned from the bar, two men at the neighboring table laughed coarsely. Paola and I glanced at them—big, overloud, beer-drinking, sprawling white guys in their fifties—then looked away. There was no need to spell out the politics of the situation, and indeed our conversation had been happily free of any mention of the stupid, evil President. I was conscious that I had no real sense of what Paola’s ideas on that topic might be. She had never been someone to think what everybody else was thinking.
Over our Bloody Marys, I found myself telling her the story of Aoife and James. She listened, as of old, with calm interest. She expressed curiosity about the technicalities of the complaint procedure—“Does the school write the rules, or is it the Department of Education?”—but otherwise said very little.
When I was done, Paola raised her eyebrows. After a few moments she said, “Aoife must be an Irish name. It’s beautiful.”
This oblique response was in character, but I needed more from her. Surely she saw how ashamed and anguished I was.
The men across the aisle broke out once again into noisy laughter. It drew Paola’s attention. “Have you noticed,” she said suddenly, “how degenerate the so-called Irish and Italians are in this country? It really is quite interesting.” Her voice was almost certainly audible to the two men, although I didn’t dare look to see if they were listening. How tenaciously, Paola said, Irish- and Italian-Americans clung to their so-called heritage, and yet how little resemblance their mores and outlooks bore to those in the old countries. There was, she said, a certain pathos in the situation of communities morally misshapen, presumably, by their ancestors’ brutalizing experience of poverty, emigration, and assimilation. Notable, also, was the recent and deepening fusion of these two ethnic groups by intermarriage, which had had the effect of creating a hybrid identity founded on comical and grotesque notions of racial self-worth. She was thinking of writing something about it. It would involve, Paola said, a lot of research on Long Island, a part of the country that had long fascinated her.
She said with a small smile, “You look puzzled, Clodagh.”
Was she testing me? Did she suspect me of Irish-American degeneracy? I felt under scrutiny—that I’d disappointed her, with my story of my business career and my maternal ups and downs. Had she always been such a snob?
“Sorry,” I said. “I was distracted. This thing with the boy from the laundromat . . .” I shook my head.
Paola asked, “He’s not making trouble anymore?”
“Well—Aoife’s at college. We’ve had no contact.”
“So it’s a happy ending,” she said.
Was she being ironic? Was she bored? “It isn’t Aoife I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s James. He’s got a suspension on his record. For sexual harassment, of all things.”
Paola rattled the ice cubes in her plastic glass. “He will be fine. He will survive. People survive, Clodagh.” She drained what was left of her drink. Her hand had drifted to her book.
She was condescending to me, and the encounter now felt fully anachronistic. I wasn’t that girl from Newcastle West, and Paola was no longer the cool professor who jingled keys to an enigmatic adult world. My former self would have wanted to know what she was thinking—about me, about everything—would have wanted to assure her that I wasn’t in the habit of ambushing near-strangers with autobiographical monologues. But I felt sorry for her, this childless, too-thin woman in her sixties who couldn’t quit smoking and was still interested in her air of mystery.
I finished my drink and smiled. Quite amiably I said, “It was very nice to see you, Paola.”
“Goodbye, Clodagh,” Paola said, just as amiably. Giving nothing away, she smiled once again. She picked up her book.
I went back to my seat. The train stormed on and on. Time stormed onward, too. In the spring, I went into our local Duane Reade. There I ran into someone I didn’t want to see.
The checkout staff—one woman—had temporarily absented herself, and this had resulted in a long line of customers that wound around belt barriers and from there into an aisle enclosed by tall racks. I joined the line and waited. Soon enough everyone shuffled forward, and I progressed beyond the racks and into the open area with the barriers. Facing me in the winding line, in effect approaching me on my right, was Mrs. Wang.
There was no question of fleeing. You make your bed and you lie in it.
Away from that hot, dark laundry, she looked a lot younger. She was in her mid-thirties, I realized. Then a movement of the line placed us alongside each other. We exchanged polite nods.
“Hello, Mrs. Wang,” I said. “How is your family?”
“Good,” she said. “Your family?”
“Good, thank you,” I said.
She gave me a more searching look. She said, “Your daughter good?”
“Yes,” I said. I forced myself to utter the sentence “How is James?”
“Good,” she said. “Accepted by No. 1 college.” She smiled. It was an amazing smile. She said, “University of Pennsylvania. Ivy League.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “He’s a good lad.”
Mrs. Wang said, “Yes. Work hard.” Then the line quickened and she was called forward to make payment.
When Ian came home that evening, I told him that I wanted to visit Ireland again, to see my brother.
“Sure,” he said. “It was fun last time.”
The last time had been when Aoife was four years old. She was anxious about going, until I promised her that we’d see rainbows. After that she would not stop talking about the rainbows of Ireland. It worried Ian a little. “There had better be rainbows,” he said.
“There will be,” I said. But I was worried, too.
On the airplane, Aoife asked me, “Are rainbows real?” She was suspicious.
“They are,” I said.
We landed at Shannon in the morning. In the rental car, Aoife was wide awake and inspecting the sky. It was a windy spring day, with white and gray and blue clouds speeding in from the west.
We had not been driving for more than a few minutes when Ian said, “Aoife, look.”
A rainbow faintly showed above the estuary. “Rainbow,” Aoife shouted.
We drove from County Clare into Limerick, then back out toward Newcastle West. There were so many rainbows that we stopped looking for them before we reached Adare. ♦
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