Authors: Jen Sookfong Lee
End of East, The (21 page)
“Maybe Dad will commit her to a hospital this time.”
“I don’t care. I wish she was dead.”
“She’s a fake.”
“She just wants attention.”
He watches the dust float through a shaft of light that somehow snuck its way through a wayward crack in the curtains.
He imagines the motes as tiny circus clowns tumbling through a big top from a tightrope, or shooting through the air from a cannon.
He imagines the motes as tiny circus clowns tumbling through a big top from a tightrope, or shooting through the air from a cannon.
Pon Man wanders the streets of Chinatown on a Saturday morning, killing time as he waits for his father. Seid Quan is stepping down from his position as chair of the clan association and is overseeing the election to replace him. He had asked Pon Man if he would like to attend. “You could vote. I paid your membership fee last year.” Pon Man almost said no, had the word balanced on his tongue. Somehow, though, it never left his mouth, and he drove with his father to Chinatown and walked into the offices beside him. He tried to ignore the surprise on the other men’s faces.
It’s funny,
he thinks,
how hard I have tried to get out
.
he thinks,
how hard I have tried to get out
.
He cast his vote (for an old classmate of his, the son of Seid Quan’s roommate from the house on Princess Street) and immediately left, turning as he walked through the door. “I’ll be in the car,” he said, and Seid Quan nodded, his eyes focused on the ballot box.
He walks for twenty minutes, circling the junk shops on Pender, full to the ceilings with paper lanterns, plastic Buddhas and paper fans printed with poorly reproduced bamboo and apple blossoms. He peers through the algae-green water at the live fish who don’t bother to swim but instead float in the murky water as if resigned to their fates (steamed whole in cast iron woks, drizzled with hot oil scented with green onion and ginger). At Main and Hastings, he stands for a moment, watching the addicts lurch down the stairs leading to the public underground washrooms.
This neighbourhood has declined
. As soon as he thinks this, though, he knows that it is only partly
true; Chinatown was never a respectable place (he remembers the days when the streets were dotted with nightclubs and gambling dens, when burlesque dancers stood in the alleys, half-naked, so they could finish their cigarettes in peace). It is only that, now, the problems have no fine veneer of entertainment or respectability covering them up; rather, they have bubbled to the surface, raw sores on an already scarred and rough skin.
This neighbourhood has declined
. As soon as he thinks this, though, he knows that it is only partly
true; Chinatown was never a respectable place (he remembers the days when the streets were dotted with nightclubs and gambling dens, when burlesque dancers stood in the alleys, half-naked, so they could finish their cigarettes in peace). It is only that, now, the problems have no fine veneer of entertainment or respectability covering them up; rather, they have bubbled to the surface, raw sores on an already scarred and rough skin.
He walks back to the car and slides into the front seat.
Perhaps from here
, he thinks as he wipes off a streak of dust on the dashboard,
no one will see me
.
Perhaps from here
, he thinks as he wipes off a streak of dust on the dashboard,
no one will see me
.
Pon Man reflects that it is uneasy, the relationship between the Chinese and the single-room hotel dwellers. It is as if they never see each other—although they must, for they are always careful to keep their distance. They have more in common, though, than they think. The goal for everyone is, of course, escape.
He shifts in his seat again, picks up the newspaper lying beside him. “Chinese-Canadians Calling for Head Tax Redress.” Pon Man looks closer at the headline and squints as if he does not quite believe what he has just read. Some important members of the Chinese-Canadian community have banded together to demand that the money their grandfathers and great-grandfathers paid to enter Canada be returned with interest. Pon Man laughs.
“How silly that anyone should think we will ever get that money back,” he says to himself. “I don’t want it, anyway. It’s just blood money—pure and simple.” He lights a cigarette and hangs the tip out the window.
And he wants to forget. The years between his father’s arrival and his own were not happy ones; they were filled with
awkwardness, anger and loneliness, physical and otherwise. He remembers wishing he could come to Canada to be with his father, and he remembers that as soon as he set foot on Canadian soil and saw Seid Quan’s thin shadow he wanted to go right back.
They will drag everyone’s suffering into the open—and ours, too.
He will have to explain the ugliness of the family’s past to his daughters (the anger he feels, muffled by years of suppression but still there, churning through his stomach, pushing at his insides, making him feel nauseated every time he hears or smells his father coming, the lost opportunities, always the lost opportunities), and he is not quite ready for that yet.
awkwardness, anger and loneliness, physical and otherwise. He remembers wishing he could come to Canada to be with his father, and he remembers that as soon as he set foot on Canadian soil and saw Seid Quan’s thin shadow he wanted to go right back.
They will drag everyone’s suffering into the open—and ours, too.
He will have to explain the ugliness of the family’s past to his daughters (the anger he feels, muffled by years of suppression but still there, churning through his stomach, pushing at his insides, making him feel nauseated every time he hears or smells his father coming, the lost opportunities, always the lost opportunities), and he is not quite ready for that yet.
He sees Seid Quan walking down the street toward him, leaning, as always, to the right to accommodate his shorter leg. Pon Man breathes faster, feels the buildings of Chinatown begin to close in on his car as if they are toppling over and will bury him in their misery-soaked bricks. He leans over and pushes the passenger door open.
They drive away, speeding along the Georgia Viaduct as fast as the car can take them. Pon Man turns his head to his father. “Everything go well?”
“Yes. Peter got in.”
Pon Man nods, steers the car toward Venables. “Good. I voted for him.”
“They were surprised you came. They said you should come more often, maybe sit on the board next time.”
Pon Man says nothing. As he breathes, he can smell Seid Quan’s tweedy scent, the faintness of his aftershave, the same brand he used in the barbershop. Pon Man’s stomach flips.
“I’m busy enough, I think. The children, you know, and the wife.”
Seid Quan nods. “Of course. That’s what I told them.”
Pon Man knows his father is thinking it is all an excuse, that time could be made if Pon Man wanted, but he cannot go back there, immerse himself in the workings of Chinatown, the place he knows so intimately. Even now, he is sure that, if he were blindfolded, he could find his way among the alleys and streets just by his sense of smell, by the dips of the pavement under his feet. He is no longer a Chinatown boy—he is an accountant with a house on the East Side. He tends a flower garden. He loves his car.
He looks at Seid Quan, at his lined face held still and set, the short hairs around his ears waving in the breeze from the open window. Pon Man’s own face hardens, and he lets his body grow cold. If he begins to feel pity, he might just do everything his father wants.
The office is silent, and the cleaning lady has come and gone. Pon Man punches numbers into his adding machine. Outside, it is raining, and the highway is dark and slick. He checks his watch. Six o’clock. He leans back in his chair and stares at his ghostly reflection in the window.
Ed from down the hall pokes his head into Pon Man’s office. “Pon, aren’t you going home to your lovely wife and daughters soon?”
Pon Man smiles. “Ed, would you want to go back to a house full of women angry at you for being late?”
Ed snorts. “Good point. I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t sleep at your desk—it’ll ruin your neck.” He walks down the hall, whistling.
Pon Man takes a sip from his cup of coffee. As he turns to organize his briefcase, he begins to cough.
Went down the
wrong way
, he thinks. He closes his eyes and coughs into his fist. He can hear Ed jingling his keys in the reception area. He keeps coughing until tears start to form around the corners of his eyes, until his ribs start to ache from the violence. His chest heaves in and out. His hands shake as he cups his side.
Went down the
wrong way
, he thinks. He closes his eyes and coughs into his fist. He can hear Ed jingling his keys in the reception area. He keeps coughing until tears start to form around the corners of his eyes, until his ribs start to ache from the violence. His chest heaves in and out. His hands shake as he cups his side.
“Pon, are you all right?”
Pon Man opens his eyes and sees Ed standing over him, a full glass of fresh water in his hand. He takes a deep breath, forces the cough to settle in his throat. “I’m fine.”
Ed looks doubtful, but hands him the glass of water anyway. As Pon Man reaches for the glass, Ed breathes in sharply. “What’s that all over your hand?”
Pon Man looks at the hand he had used to cover his mouth. Splattered all over the skin is new blood, slightly pink and mixed with mucus. He stares at it, then lowers his arm and hides his fist in his lap.
“Too many smokes, I guess. Listen, thanks for the water. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Pon Man stands up and hurries down the hall and out the door, not even waiting to see if Ed is behind him. He bursts into the parking lot, running with so much momentum that he feels as if he is being pushed by a giant, invisible breath.
“Cancer.” The doctor turns to Pon Man, sitting alone in a white plastic chair.
He swallows. “What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m going to refer you to the cancer centre, and they’ll help determine your treatment, but I imagine there will be some surgery and then some follow-up radiation. After that, they’ll assess the situation to see if you need anything further.”
“Anything further?”
“Chemotherapy. But I doubt you’ll need it. You’re in pretty good shape. Just remember to stay off those cigarettes.”
On the drive home, he thinks of all the ways he can tell his wife, and of all the ways she could react. He fears her screaming and crying, the way she might run to the bedroom and bury herself in the blankets for days. How will he tell his daughters? Wendy is married and out of the house now, and Daisy and Jackie are almost finished school, so he is not as worried about them. It is the younger two, Penny and Samantha—Penny, such an angry teenager, and Sammy, a little girl just getting ready for braces, her limbs just starting to grow out like gangly spider legs—who he fears will grow up crooked somehow, as they try to bend their still-pliable bodies to avoid the sickness.
He turns and stops his car on the gravel shoulder. He rests his head on the steering wheel and cries until his head feels simultaneously swollen and empty.
It is not as bad as he feared. Siu Sang sits on the edge of their bed and listens carefully, nodding at the doctor’s instructions for eating and exercise. Pon Man sees a flicker across her face and wonders if she is thinking of being alone with the girls, of having to keep up this house and family on her own. But it is only a flicker and, soon after, Siu Sang writes notes on her calendar so she can remember the dates and times of his appointments. She reaches into his nightstand and pulls out his cigarettes.
“No more of these,” she says and takes them outside to throw in the garbage.
He hears Wendy arriving for her weekly dinner at home. The girls chatter in the living room, their voices like the rising and falling calls of swallows. He steps into the living room and sits down.
“Cancer?” Jackie looks blank.
“That’s what he said, dummy.” Penny sighs heavily.
Wendy sits up straight. “When do you start treatment? I’ll go with you to all the appointments and drive you home. You can’t drive yourself.”
Daisy whispers in Jackie’s ear. “Do you think I can still move to Hong Kong?”
Pon Man looks at the two youngest, at Penny staring morosely at her ripped jeans, at Sammy fidgeting in her seat. He leans down. “Do you have anything to say?”
Sammy squirms and shakes her head. She looks over at her older sisters and slumps farther into the couch.
Pon Man stands up, relieved that it is all over. As he turns to walk into the kitchen, he sees that Seid Quan’s bedroom door is open. He pauses and wonders if there is any way he can avoid this conversation. Perhaps his father will not notice that Pon Man is not at work. Perhaps the girls will manage to keep it a secret.
He shakes his head and walks slowly to his father’s room, pokes his head around the door frame. Seid Quan sits at his small desk, reading
National Geographic
. He turns a page, clicking his tongue at the pictures.
National Geographic
. He turns a page, clicking his tongue at the pictures.
“Father? Can I speak to you for a moment?”
Seid Quan looks up and smiles. Pon Man feels guilty, for he knows that his father hopes this will be a real conversation, that Pon Man will finally reveal himself and Seid Quan will, after all these years, understand the boy who has remained a mystery to him.
Pon Man sits heavily on the bed. “I have just been to the doctor, and it seems that I have cancer. I will be off work for a while, getting treatments. I might end up being very sick.” Finally, he has the courage to look up into his father’s face.
Seid Quan’s shoulders slump forward so slightly that no one who is not his son would ever see it. His father’s jaw, usually so firm, has fallen slack. Pon Man’s eyes roam the room, rest on a framed photograph of his mother standing in the snow, her head covered by a scarf.
“I don’t know what else to tell you. I know very little myself right now. I’ve been telling the girls not to be afraid.”
Seid Quan nods, twists his wrinkled hands together.
“I’ll keep you posted. And I’ll call Min Lai and Yun Wo tonight to let them know.”
Pon Man sees that his father has closed his eyes.
“It’ll be all right. I’m not scared.” This, he knows, is a lie, but he says it anyway. Pon Man stands up. “Well, I guess I’ll go help Siu Sang cut up that chicken. She hates carving.”
He leaves the bedroom and tells himself not to look back.
He has fallen into the deepest sleep he has ever had, one from which he is sure he will never emerge, one that will pull him down even deeper if he tries to climb out. But he finds that he doesn’t care, that this darkness, punctuated by fuzzy dreams and unknown shapes, isn’t really so bad, after all.
Preferable
, he thinks,
to some of the days I spend at the office
.
Preferable
, he thinks,
to some of the days I spend at the office
.
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