The Chinese Groove, page 13
She could have used a vocabulary tune-up. Interesting was not a synonym for maddening. Perhaps she was growing more proficient in the feint of the Chinese groove.
“Make yourself shorter,” I suggested and demonstrated my squat.
“Oof. If I could do that, which I can’t, I’d never get out of it without a winch and a tow truck. What story did you tell him? It worked like magic.”
“The story of the fisherman who goes to the Peach Blossom Forest.”
“I never heard that one,” Aviva said.
And she called herself a storyteller.
“My mother told it to me. Every Chinese schoolchild knows it.”
“Well, I don’t,” Aviva said. “You’re a lifesaver, Shelley. Truly. I want you to have this.” She handed me an iPhone with a cracked screen. My fingers greedily closed over it, called to the smooth and white.
“I bought a new one,” Aviva said. “I’ve added you to our plan. I like the convenience of text.”
I thanked her, wise to the fact that she liked the convenience of texting me. All day long at the lao jia, people were coming and going, needing this or that. But I was happy to take what she was giving. Now I could save exclusively for Father’s laptop.
“How’s Henry? We’ve been so busy that I haven’t had the chance to check. Orit gets me up for a run before work and boot camp on Sunday mornings. I love that Orit’s a doer like me. She takes me to her synagogue for Friday-night services. It’s been ages since I’ve gone. I don’t like going alone. Ted used to come with me to make me happy, but he stopped after Eli died. I’m not saying I wish I’d married someone Jewish, but it would’ve been easier, for sure. You know, when you’re young, how you can’t know what will be important to you later? Oh, ha ha. You’re still young. You haven’t discovered that yet. What a treat you have in store. I’m joking.”
Before the doer could dream up more doings to be done by me, I fled.
THE DOG’S NAME WAS Crouder, a furry, blurry, white terrier mix. There was something paranormal about him: he stared directly at me into both my eyes at once. I couldn’t figure out how he did it, but the trick left me unnerved. As far as I was concerned, Crouder’s whole species was invasive, and in particular, Crouder. He barked when they left him in the house by himself, so they put him in the backyard and he barked even harder. He dug under the fence and showed up at our back door where he whimpered like a baby until Henry opened wide and Crouder sauntered in, heading straight for Diana’s armchair with a satisfied doggy smile. Once again, I’d been bilked by my own ilk. I’d failed to spot the sponger until it was too late to squeeze him out. Henry didn’t mind him, because once in a while, Leo came looking for Crouder, which brought Kate over. Nobody made him light up like Kate did.
“Look at his ear,” Henry told me, pointing at Crouder curled on Diana’s chair.
I looked. I couldn’t believe it. A large black mole was tucked into Crouder’s right ear flap.
“He’s got the mark!” Henry said.
The Zheng family emblem. A chill ran down my spine.
“Did you see this?” I asked Ted later. I showed him Crouder’s pull tab, but Ted only shrugged. He’d done as Aviva ordered and let their friends move in, but he seemed lost to himself. The book he was supposed to ghostwrite had fallen through. Kate had urged him to write his own book instead. Tell your story. Maybe it’ll help.
I knew how he would answer. There wasn’t much doer in Ted.
AND THEN, AS IF I didn’t have enough to handle, HSW started hanging around. I’d found out from Henry that the mysterious personage with the mania for monograms and taste for tailored togs was Ted’s childhood chum Huntington Wong. Like Kate, he’d known Henry for years. His mother and Diana had been close friends and had raised their sons together. Both women had served as church deacons, but Henry didn’t go to Sunday services anymore. As Mr. Bill Lee had told me, he didn’t feel like he belonged the way that Diana did.
Huntington’s parents had passed, but Huntington still called the old neighborhood home. He’d married a rich Chinese American beauty from the Peninsula; they had two little girls and had lived in a luxury building on Broadway Street, the Gold Coast of San Francisco, until Huntington decided to run for city supervisor. He moved his family to the Sunset so he could run from District Four, residency being a requirement of the office. Now he was Supervisor Wong, native son made good. He was making a name for himself standing up for immigrant rights and for small business owners against protection rackets.
“He hasn’t forgotten where he came from,” Henry boasted. “He told me the other day that he’d rather hang out here with me than play another round of golf with the backstabbing ass-kissers he deals with at city hall. That speaks volumes. Success hasn’t gone to his head.”
“Why leave his suits and shirts here?” Huntington had moved them to the bonus room downstairs.
“He’s loyal. He says nobody does his shirts better than Mrs. Lum at the dry cleaner around the corner. He never stops fighting for us regular folks. I’m taking him to the ponds. He’s asked me for some pointers.”
My Zheng proboscis twitched. I was protective of my protector, source of my shelter and wages. I didn’t trust Huntington Wong, whose easy laughter rose from him like a courtesan’s jasmine scent. I’d figured out that Henry’s slow-growth approach to the market was producing a winning streak. On days he finished up, he celebrated with Maker’s Mark. On down days, he imbibed an inferior brand that gave him a sour stomach. Lately he’d been the picture of gastric repose. As luck would have it, his money was piling up, and I didn’t want it going into a politician’s pocket. To put it bluntly: I needed those funds for myself. My semester was ending soon; I had to reenroll to keep my student status, plus Professor Luo said that if I continued my successful performance, there was no telling where it would lead.
“Ask Ted to join you,” I suggested. “He’d like to see his friend.” Henry and Ted hadn’t spoken since the day Leo moved in. I could vanquish two birds with a single pebble: bring Ted to keep an eye and a hand on Henry’s wallet, and get Ted and Henry talking, or at least in close-enough proximity that the Chinese groove had the chance to work its magic. The groove was conditioned, you see, to prize the family unit over anyone within. That might sound oppressive, but it has its uses. Sometimes, nothing else but custom, held in the body as a memory centuries old, can salvage the connection between a fractured father and son.
“Ted? He’s not a sportsman. He’d ruin a nice afternoon between Huntington and me. He’s got no respect for history and traditions. Huntington ran hurdles in high school. I was his coach. Great competitor. Full of heart.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” I said.
But Henry’s own nose was twitching. After two months of living in the saltbox together, familiarity was breeding. It’s a cost of family life. The lao jia, inevitably, lays one bare to the others.
“First, you’re jealous of Kate’s little boy. Now it’s Huntington Wong.”
He was right to call me jealous, but didn’t I have good cause? Just when I’d gotten a ye ye, HSW had imposed.
“Huntington’s used to having a caddy,” I said. “You’ll need me to handle the tackle.”
That sounded right to Henry. He told me to fetch his favorite fly rod for Huntington to borrow. A man that loyal deserved Henry’s thanks.
I hustled to show Henry that I was every bit as loyal as Native Son Made Good.
I’D BEEN WRONG AND I wasn’t too proud to admit it. Huntington was a prince among men. As soon as he arrived, he insisted that I join them for lunch. From what he’d heard from Ted, I was a multitalented multitasker with big dreams and my feet firmly planted. It was high time we got acquainted. He drove us across town to a Chinatown establishment where the owner greeted him—Right this way, Supervisor Wong—and ordered special dishes served to us by his wife, a hairsprayed lady who good-naturedly ribbed her guest, Where’s your beautiful wife? We never see her anymore.
She’s looking after her mother, Huntington said, winking at Henry and me, since earlier he’d told us that his wife, Delilah, was visiting her horse in Woodside. She has her mare; I have you, he said to Henry with a grin. You’re what keeps me anchored. Soon appeared the silky rock cod I selected from the tank at Huntington’s invitation. He served the eye and cheek to Henry, who smacked his lips in anticipation, and the largest portion to me. Then he asked for the chef, who came out and apologized for his inferior cooking while Huntington heaped praise, a classic display of the Chinese groove. Huntington, more than Ted, knew how the groove was oiled.
Following lunch, we went to a gentlemen’s fly-fishing shop, where Huntington asked Henry’s advice about which rods were the best and under what conditions. They debated for a long time, Henry expansive under the younger man’s attention. Huntington purchased the rod that Henry recommended, saying, You’ll have to use this for me often. I want an expert to break it in. Then he bought Henry a new fishing vest and twelve beautiful hand-tied flies. Henry tried to refuse the gifts, but Huntington was so hurt that his old friend’s father wouldn’t let him show his appreciation that Henry had to relent. I was touched by Huntington’s solicitous concern, which lightened Henry’s step. We arrived, giddy, at Golden Gate Park.
Huntington wouldn’t begin until I arranged myself beside him. It would mean a lot to Henry, he said under his breath, pressing an extra rod he’d brought into my hands. My first tries landed well, and I basked in Huntington’s praise. He was good, almost as good as Henry. He cast his line deftly.
“It’s the rod,” Huntington said modestly. “It makes me look better than I am.” Every few casts, he stopped to ask questions of Henry, who analyzed Huntington’s mechanics flick by flick.
After a while, seeing the two of them engrossed, I went for a walk by myself. I walked all the way to the grassy meadow where I’d camped with Ron and the boys. There were no tents standing, and the grounds were deserted except for a few tourists renting bicycles at the park gates. An officer patrolled on a sad-eyed horse. Walking back, I stopped at the bison paddock and hallooed to them from the fence. They didn’t turn to greet me, though by now we were old friends. Leo and I visited them almost every day, followed by a stop at the Hippee Dippee ice cream truck. The cloud cover was burning off, and the tall trees along the road, usually dark and forbidding, turned richly green in the sun. I looked straight up into the luxuriant branches, felt the solid earth beneath me and the upward pull of the trees. I’d fulfilled my First Achievable. I had a full-fledged family now and a place to call home, and once a body has a home (you know as well as I), the momentous things in life that one profoundly desires feel within fingertip reach. Love was next, Love and Fortune, Achievables Two and Three. Promises made, promises to keep. The sky broadened into a wash of blue. Sunlight reigned through the trees.
14.
Everything Right
EVERY NIGHT, AFTER DOING MY HOMEWORK AND helping Henry to bed, I sat at Diana’s desk in my mango-colored bedroom ready to deliver on my promise to Lisbet of three splendid poems. There was just one problem: I didn’t know how to start. My fervent feelings weren’t coughing up the goods. The more nights that passed, the more I doubted myself. Was it possible that I didn’t possess the true soul of a poet?
“There’s an app you can use,” Paloma advised. “You choose your theme then pick the imagery you want—you click on their pictures or upload your own. The algorithm does the rest.”
“Show us a photo of her,” Eddie said. “I still don’t believe she exists.”
I pulled out my new old phone and showed them Lisbet on the grass at Honghe University. Her hazel eyes were cast in shadow. Her faint smile moved like a force through my chest. She was a swallow, endlessly swooping, and I was the birder, trying to spot her on the wing. I couldn’t use an app to write the poems for me.
“Glenna Ohhhhh,” Eddie said. “She was asking about you at lunch.”
“It’s almost June,” I said. “Our birthdays are coming up. I’m sure I’ll hear from Lisbet soon.”
At Diana’s desk, I sweated through the night, trying to think like an algorithm. Henry called me a lovelorn fool and chuckled at my distress. He said I’d be better off studying for final exams. I was running out of time to ask him to pay for another semester, but I hadn’t figured out a surefire way to prompt Henry to offer.
One night, after another fruitless session, I saw the light switch on in Henry’s bedroom. It was past midnight. I tapped lightly and he called to me to come in.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked.
He was sitting up in bed in striped pajamas. Without his glasses on, he looked softer, younger. He wasn’t holding a book or magazine. He still had his watch on—he’d forgotten to take it off.
“You happy here? With our arrangement?” The words burst out of him. I wasn’t the only one spring-loaded with worry. Instead of a poem, providence had arrived.
“Ye Ye, I’m happy here. I have two more weeks in the program, then I don’t know what to do. I need money to pay for the next semester. Otherwise, I’ll have to leave school.” And overstay my visa, I thought, which Henry would never abide.
“You’re a damn fool,” Henry said. “Waiting so long to speak up.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. I thought of Father asking his boss for the money to send me here. Over the years, I’d come to think that Father had not a shred of pride left in him, but now I wasn’t sure. Maybe Father felt the same as I suddenly did, flimsy in substance and weakened by need. Hollowed-out from the inside like a melon scooped of its flesh. I wondered if the bad feeling went away in a person who has to ask again and again, or if it showed up every time, even in the daily beggar. I never wanted to learn the answer to that awful question.
“You want to stay?” Henry said. “You like it here fine?” He sounded gruff but he looked uncertain.
“I want to stay with you, and stay in school,” I said.
Henry sat back and worked himself into a smile. “When I first hired you, Ted predicted you wouldn’t be able to stand me for more than a week.” His voice shook a little and I realized he was relieved. Since I’d come to live with him, Aviva no longer mentioned social workers or day programs or assisted living. She didn’t bring him fish oil or offer to sign him up for the build-a-birdfeeder class at the senior center. I was his shield, his safety net, his cover. Along with Huntington, I was his only ally.
“He was wrong,” I protested.
“Dead wrong,” Henry said. His spit-shined lips twitched in satisfaction. I had sympathy for them both—for Ted, whose father didn’t believe in him the way Father believed in me, and for Henry, plagued as he was by his own awful question: Was he as unlovable as his son believed?
“So I can tell Professor Luo I’ll continue?”
“You take those exams first. If you do well—really well—then I’ll pay your school fees for as long as you keep up your marks.”
I fetched him a glass of warm milk and rearranged his pillow. As I reached across to fold down the blanket, he patted me on the arm.
“You’re a good boy. Your father must miss you.” His eyes clouded. “It’s okay with him, is it? That you’re not going home?”
“This is what he wants. He promised Mother.”
Henry sighed and went to sleep.
I WROTE TO FATHER, care of Cousin Deng, to tell him that not only had I been promoted at the family department store, but my American ye ye was generously paying for me to continue my studies. I was living with him now, the better for my schooling. I heard back from Cousin Deng: Gave your message to your dad. Nothing new to report. Your foreign girlfriend’s looking for you. He forwarded an email from Lisbet, and a bolt of joy struck me like a fist bump to my throat. I’ve been thinking of you, she said. I raced to Eddie’s apartment, heart pounding.
“The mysterious lady checks in at last,” Eddie said. “What are you going to tell her?”
“I want to see her, of course! She’s in L.A., staying with her mother. She said her mother wanted her home because her stepfather left.”
“You better take your exams and keep the old man happy,” Eddie said.
I asked to borrow Paloma’s laptop and attacked it with trembling hands. Lisbet’s answer came back so quickly that it seemed like she’d never gone away. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’d love to see you too. Three times I read the message. I would’ve crawled right into the laptop if my nose-of-note Zheng nib hadn’t gotten in the way. I danced for a dizzy second, trying to ignore the black fish of worry bobbing along to the beat. How could I confess to Lisbet that I wasn’t a poet yet? Toe pruner, bean topper, world-class sponger. Loyal caregiver to an old man, a kid, and a dog, but not, I feared, a poet. I wrote back to say that I’d come as soon as I could after the term was over.
Take the time you need. I’ll wait, Lisbet wrote.
HENRY DRILLED ME EVERY day, saying, I have to protect my investment. I took the exams and aced them. The score on my latest TOEFL—that standardized behemoth, that bugbear test of proficiency and polish that plagues every non-native-English-speaking student—still had room for improvement, but after three tries, it was climbing. At the top of my exercise book, Professor Luo had written: Excellent work. I enjoyed your composition on urban wildlife. I brought his comments straight to Henry, who pretended with a grunt to complain. Send me the bill for next semester. Better to spend my money on you than on my ungrateful son. He dug from a drawer an old magnet advertising Hong’s Fine Food Market and posted Professor Luo’s praise on the refrigerator door.
