Page 51 of No Merciful Corruption

Dahlia: Could get awkward.

Dahlia: Should we have a code word?

“Is that Dee?”

I nod. “She wants a code word for when she’s ready to flee Karina’s.”

Me: no code word

Me: Just talk

Me: It’ll be worth it. I promise.

KARINA TELLS THE TRUTH

Dahlia

Rahway, New Jersey

Alejandro: It’ll be worth it. I promise.

Me: if you say so…

Idrop my phone in my purse just as Karina returns with a tray in hand. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Our great-great-grandmother lived to be a hundred and four and died when Karina and I were both very little, around five and nine. She was an avid porcelain tea set collector and when she passed, there were enough of them for every girl in the family to pick the collection of their choosing. Mine is wrapped up in bubble wrap and stored in the back of my closet because I’m too paranoid to actually take it out. Not Karina, though.

Hers is on display and in use. She pours coffee from the pot into one of the delicately painted cups before extending it to me. Karina’s set is one of the oldest from our great-great-grandmother’s collection. At this point, it has to be a hundred years old, if not a little bit older. The colors are vibrant: red, pink, and gold with hints of blue and green around the trimming. Swirling designs, blooming flowers, and motifs decorate the plates and a Reina Mora is painted on the side of the teapot.

Karina’s house is painfully cute. Sickeningly adorable, actually. Walking inside is like being enveloped in the embrace of a grandmother. Her sofa is plush and comfy with a knitted blanket and fluffy throw pillows. The furniture is Honeywood and walnut, a little scuffed up and worn, but only in the way all well-loved things are. The rug is soft, pattern faded, edges clean but a little frayed with age. She has an old clock on the fireplace mantle and the walls are covered in floral wallpaper. Pinks, pale greens, yellows, and ocean blues fill the space.

A tufted love chair is tucked into a corner near the living room window and stacks of books litter the floor around it. Bookmarks stick out from their yellowing pages and light passes through the glass of the vintage lamp close by. There’s a television but it’s small and hooked up to a DVD player. Pictures cover the walls and Brent isn’t in a single one of them. I can tell he used to be though. Some frames don’t fit within the shadow the old ones left behind.

She has photos of me and our childhood together. One from my tenth birthday, another from her high school graduation. A photo of us from New Year’s in Paris and a different one from my college graduation just before we left for the final cousins trip we never got to finish.

“Dahlia?”

My head swings around. “Yes?”

Karina’s brows furrow slightly. “Um, your coffee?”

I look down and see the cup and spoon in my hands. I’ve been stirring black coffee this entire time. “Oh.” I pour a bit of milk and sugar into mine. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Did you have class today?”

She takes a sip of her drink and nods. “An 8:30 lecture. The kids were thrilled.”

“Hmm,” I hum in response before gesturing toward the living room. “The place looks nice.”

“Thanks. I do my best.”

“Do you think you’ll get it in the divorce?”

“I doubt it. I can’t afford it on my own. CUNY doesn’t exactly pay their adjuncts a six-figure salary,” she says. “But it’s mine for now at least. Brent’s been staying with his parents.”

“I’m surprised he left without a fight,” I quip.