The Ninth Wife Read Online Free Page A

Caucasian-American female with a history best fictionalized to be interesting. So she turned to the stories and crafts of others.
    Bess gets the most interview assignments at her organization because her boss claims she can open doors with her warm eyes and sweet smile. Maybe, Bess had said, but she’s always thought her subjects open up to her because they can sense her sincerity. Though the world has its share of assholes (Exhibit A: Certain Ex-Boyfriends from Bess Gray’s Past), Bess believes people are inherently good and by sheer endurance through life have interesting, or at the very least different and therefore edifying stories to tell. This is particularly true when they’re from other cultures. And they’re telling the truth.
    So turning to the stories of others has always been easy. Turning to the crafts of others proved more difficult. Her fingers bled learning the mandolin; the mound of clay in her pottery class had a habit of spinning bits of itself off the wheel and into the ponytail of the very angry, very large bearded biker in front of her; and no amount of lighting could help her thread a needle. But she didn’t give up, for a good way to truly understand the traditions of other cultures—and, if she was being honest with herself, to maybe find her own place in the world—is to experience them. Thus another reason that she loves karate. Part of her study of karate, of Tae Kwon Do in particular, is to learn Korean words and the historical basis for the movements, about the villagers who were forbidden to carry actual weapons and thus developed their bodies as weapons to protect against marauders.
    And in turning to the histories of others, she finds herself attracted to certain types of men: foreign ones, or if not foreign then first-generation Americans with ties to their parents’ homelands, their accents, their foods and fairy tales. And if not once removed, then halved and quartered in curious ways, like Sonny the Asian-American Southerner.
    But most of the dozen or so relationships she’s had since college sadly fizzled after a few months. Before she was thirty, she could usually pinpoint the reasons—the South African was an insatiable flirt; the Panamanian had a gorgeous, perfect mother with whom no woman could compete; and the adjunct physics professor from grad school couldn’t handle the distraction from his research, which he assured her would one day win him a Nobel. But in the last five years, it seems fear of commitment was the refrain, as with Sonny. Either that or they simply ended it with an acceptance of blame and an inarticulate apology, and then they were gone. When it came to dating, she used to feel too young and naïve until this morning, when she suddenly felt awfully old.
    T he party is a few hours away. Bess zips up her knapsack and locks the door to her office. On her way home she drops off a handful of bilingual books at a nearby health clinic, offering a friendly hello to the security guard.
    “Hot out today,” he says, holding the door for her. “Spring’s finally come ’round.”
    “Yeah, it has. My allergies are already kicking in.”
    “Gotta stock up on them tissues and pills.”
    “Done and done. Bring it on!” She waves good-bye and for the rest of the walk home, weighs the pros and cons of taking her allergy meds. Big Pro: No itchy runny nose. Big Con: She can’t drink. The one time she mixed her allergy pills with alcohol she fell asleep under a bench at a dog park and woke to a giant schnauzer peeing on her thigh. The con in this case seemed like a bigger deal, as making it through this whole evening without a drink was not appealing.
    When Bess’s assistant, who was new to the area, first posed the idea of a singles party, Bess said absolutely not. But your apartment is centrally located . Nope. It’s roomy . Not a chance. You know people . NEIN! C’mon, Bess, don’t be boring. Boring? she thought. Boring? Okay, she had said, thinking of her