Read His Illegal Self for Free Online Page B

notion, but Dial did not comment directly. She’s your daughter, she said, pleased that this could mean almost anything.
    Alas, she is, said Mrs. Selkirk. Her father’s daughter too.
    At Lex, the old lady had called the boy Jay for the first time. Dial had no issue with this. In fact she was all for it. She had always thought Che a ridiculous name, an indication of everything that was wrong with the so-called Movement. If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t going to make it with anyone anyhow. But she was uncertain she had heard correctly. The next time she heard Che and when she asked the question about his name, in Bloomingdale’s, she did it quite innocently. Such were the barbs she triggered. It was as if she’d accidentally brushed a poison jellyfish.
    Dial was no longer a dirt poor scholarship girl. She did not have to take this shit. She was a Vassar professor, not that this old cow would know, or think to ask. Anna Xenos had her own temper issues and she would have enjoyed walking away, had it not been for this lovely little boy who presumably did not need more torture in his life. Dial looked at him with pity, observed his anxious hand stroking his grandma’s arm while the idiot bought Chanel. Dial would have been hard-pressed to imagine a purchase more perverse or willful—Chanel for a woman who named her child Che and her parents Class Enemies.
    With the wrapped gift clasped in her hands she looked directly into Dial’s eyes. For a moment she faltered, looking down at her gift, maybe seeing just what she had done. Then she shoved it violently at the messenger.
    You want me to call him Che in Bloomingdale’s.
    Dial thought, This woman has been driven mad by grief.
    At the door, she suddenly felt her arm snatched.
    Just go, Phoebe Selkirk hissed, go now. If anything happens to him, I’ll kill you.
    And with that Dial took the boy’s hand and ran, laughing hysterically. Jesus, she thought, as the backpack slammed against her spine. Jesus Christ, what would it be like to have Susan Selkirk as your daughter, a child who would burn down everything you owned, not least this perfect little boy with his perfect little boy legs, falling socks, banged-up shin and expensive sweater made from merino sheep, the face, the father’s face, dear Jesus.
    He looked at her adoringly, little glances, smiles. She thought how glorious it was to be loved, she, Dial, who was not loved by anyone. She felt herself just absorb this little boy, his small damp hand dissolving in her own.
    Walking out of breath along the passageway from Times Square to Port Authority a fellow freak came at them, smiling, long ringlets, badges across his denim jacket. He raised his hand to salute her.
    Was this a creep?
    When he slapped her hand she felt the slip of paper. How ridiculous was this.
    He was PL? the boy asked.
    Listen to you, she said. PL!
    You’re famous. I know all about you.
    No, no, not at all. I think you forgot me absolutely.
    She looked at the little creature. Darling parrot. What could he know of PL, fucking Maoists with cashmere sweaters, shouting men, the thirty-second orgasm.
    She uncurled the paper in her hand.
    What is it, Dial?
    Directions, baby.
    For what?
    She looked at his lifted eager face, realizing he had no idea what was about to happen. No one had told him a thing. These people with their fucking children, thrown here, dragged there, stolen by judges, given to grandmothers, holding her hand. It was not up to her to start his education. She did what she was told, found gate 10. A line had started to form and through the dark glass she could see a bus, the driver eating from a crumpled mess of silver foil.
    When’s the bus get in, she asked no one in particular.
    Don’t know nothing about no bus get in. This was a black man with his face cut by creases. He must have been seventy and the brand of the trumpet was marked clearly on his lips.
    Where are we going, Dial?
    This bus going to
Philly,
little