The Sixteenth of June Read online

  “Michael and I must seem so settled to you, so—I don’t know—established. But at the time, we shocked everyone. My friends from school thought I was crazy. Even Michael’s colleagues. They all lived uptown, you know, the Upper East Side. They were such conservative WASPs. We were the wacky liberals in the Village.” June laughed, and Nora realized it was a rare sound, the way it escaped from her. Later, Nora would wonder if June had truly called someone else a WASP.

  “I wanted certain things for myself. I wanted to be around all that energy, not in a doorman building with gargoyles. I wanted to live a certain way—to see shows and experience art, to not give all that up. I wanted to not resent my kids. I wanted to be happy.”

  Nora was relieved that June wasn’t yelling at her or discussing Leo; she wasn’t attempting to convince her to rethink her decision. The conversation had not taken a turn to Nora’s actions. So Nora listened politely, as though it were completely normal that June should be there, in the church, sitting with her in a pew.

  “You don’t know it now, but for the rest of your life, there will be pressure to compromise. The pull of this will be a force. And it won’t go away.” June tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then finally looked at Nora. “You will feel judgment, terrible judgment, for fighting this current.” June’s eyes held Nora’s. Nora felt her mouth go dry. “But not from me.” And at this June nodded, as though confirming that she had delivered her intended message.

  Nora, mystified, nodded back. Wait, she wanted to say. What exactly are you saying?

  But June was already standing, smoothing her skirt, and something slipped back into place. A bit of armor, her usual self. “Well,” she said more formally, “we wish you the best of luck, Nora. We really do.” With that, she turned on her heel.

  Was it a pardon? A blessing? Nora, still sitting, felt immobilized, and for some time she continued to stare off in the empty church. Finally she rose, shaking off the conversation, not knowing what to make of it.

  We of course don’t expect you to fly out for this, read the note accompanying the invitation, in a neat navy script. But know that you are welcome.

  The sixteenth had passed already, a warm Saturday in Milan. Nora had been ordering gelato, hunting through her wallet for change, when the date dawned on her.

  Later, back in her flat, she sat by the balcony. She imagined the party as it would unfold. She imagined Michael and June waking on Delancey and making preparations. Stephen, resentful, would drag himself to his parents’ town house. Her thoughts approached Leo. Would he bring someone new? Was he dating already? She shrank back from the idea, unable yet to face it.

  Weeks later, approaching July, she has not yet talked to Stephen about how it went. “The same, it is always the same,” he will say. The second anniversary of her mother’s death looms, a black day on the calendar, but she has been consumed with finalizing an upcoming trip to Paris. A thousand details harangue her, swarm her like insects. She must follow up with the bus company, on strike yet again. She had persuaded the program director that they should stop for lunch at a spot she remembered fondly from when she made the same trip as an undergrad. The students will love it. The magical opera with its dramatic lights and cavernous sound. The daily lessons and classes might later be a blur; she could not remember her own vocal lessons from when she was here. But this trip—the trip would stay with them forever.

  I don’t know where it will all lead, she had written Stephen earlier that day. I don’t know what I’ll do after this, how it will turn out. The program director had suggested there might be a spot for her in New Haven in the music department. “You have a gift as a coach,” he had said.

  But I’m glad, she typed. Even if it’s all a little up in the air. For the first time in so long, I feel happy. She had paused as these words came out onto the screen, paused and examined them, testing them out.

  The cursor blinked, waiting.

  It looked right.

  She hit send.

  Acknowledgments

  It is a relief and a pleasure to finally be able to thank those who have helped me.

  Miriam Altshuler, you are an extraordinary agent and a wonderful friend. I feel very fortunate to be your client.

  Kara Watson, thank you for your exquisite editorial eye, your marketing brilliance, and for being so gifted at what you do.

  Whitney Frick, you tended to these characters with me. You have been a fierce advocate of this novel from the beginning, and I’m so happy that this book brought us together.

  I wish to acknowledge the Rona Jaffe Foundation and Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference for their generous support. Beth McCabe, your belief in this project was a game changer. Michael Collier, I owe so much to Bread Loaf. Thank you, many times over.

  To Helen Schulman, for being a remarkable teacher and for leading workshops exactly as they should be led. Teddy Wayne, for being unfailingly generous throughout this process. Dave Gilbert, for being so kind, and so cool.

  Ron DeMaio founded an arts program at my public high school that made me think I could be a writer. Before that program, I didn’t know that being a writer was feasible. Honestly, I didn’t know that writers existed. Ron, the program you created and your inspired way of leading it changed the course of my life. You mentored me at fourteen, and you read a first draft of this novel nearly two decades later. In essence, this is all your fault.

  Thank you to the magazines and editors who have believed in my work, especially VQR.

  There are two people I wish to acknowledge who are no longer here. The first, Stan Hall, was my eighth-grade English teacher. A dazzling teacher, he promised he would forever scan bookstore titles for my name. He was certain this day would come, and I wish he could be here to witness it.

  The second, Jared H. Miller, was a friend who died in 2005 after a courageous battle with cancer. Jared was in the middle of getting his MD/PhD, and his death came as a shock. I think of Jared often. I think of the example he set, the way he inspired those around him, and his immense generosity and drive. He never would have guessed it, being far too humble, but he influenced me tremendously, and his memory influences me still.

  Thank you to Nan Graham, Katie Monaghan, and all of the outstanding people at Scribner. Thanks also to Bronwen Pardes for going to bat for me, Micaela Tobin for her musical expertise, and Reiko Davis for her extraordinary helpfulness throughout this process.

  To my friends and family who have cheered me on and rooted for me; your support means more than I can say. I especially wish to thank Manish, Jen, Sofie and Serena Shanbhag. To my mother, Suhas Shanbhag: how lucky I am, to have been raised by you. You taught me more than you could ever know.

  Finally, this novel is dedicated to Noah and Zoe Lang. Noah, this book would have been impossible without you. It is that simple.

  Zoe, people sometimes ask how I wrote a novel while caring for a baby. They do not understand. I didn’t write this book despite having you. I wrote this book because of having you. My daughter, you have inspired me to be a better person, raising me up simply by being you. Thank you for being exactly who you are.

  Sources

  Many resources proved useful in the writing of this novel. Joseph Allen Boone’s Libidinal Currents: Sexuality and the Shaping of Modernism and Michael North’s Reading 1922: A Return to the Scene of the Modern were both invaluable. Slavoj Žižek’s The Parallax View illuminated the term, discussed in Ulysses. Michael’s idea about insurance policy trades stems from “What’s Your Life Worth?” by James Vlahos (New York Times, August 12, 2012). Jonathan Safran Foer’s “Why a Haggadah?” (New York Times, March 31, 2012) was instrumental for Stephen’s seder, as was New American Seder. Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto offered a pleasurable and illuminating foray into opera.

  Lastly, each chapter in this novel contains lines excerpted from its corresponding episode in Ulysses. For a list, please refer to the author’s websi
te at www.mayalang.com.

  About the Author

  Photo credit: Renata Steiner

  Maya Lang is the first-generation daughter of Indian immigrants and was born in Queens, New York. She was awarded the 2012 Bread Loaf-Rona Jaffe Foundation Scholarship in Fiction and was a Finalist for Glimmer Train’s Short Story Award for New Writers. She holds a PhD in Comparative Literature from the State University of New York at Stony Brook and lives in Seattle with her family. The Sixteenth of June is her first book.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  First Scribner hardcover edition June 2014

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-4767-4574-9

  ISBN 978-1-4767-4578-7 (ebook)