February Thaw (13 page)

Shaking her head, but with no better idea, Cynthia followed him into the store.

The pattern of the carpet looked familiar.

Eyes locked on the loops and swirls, she heard nothing of what either the salesman or David said as they picked and fitted and boxed her cowboy boots. Moving numbly to the counter on the unfamiliar slabs of cork, she pulled out her wallet and muttered, "How much?" A moment later she repeated the question considerably louder.

"Cyn, they're made in Germany..."

"So what! I'm not taking them on the autobahn."

"Think of it as an investment in your state of mind."

She looked down at her toes, pale and naked, and past them to the carpet. "Oh well, I probably won't have to wear them for long." Handing over her gold card, she signed where indicated, picked up the piece of plastic...

...and froze, credit card clutched in one hand.

"Cyn?"

"This isn't money!"

"No, but..."

"But it symbolizes money! In a way, it symbolizes a standard of living I couldn't achieve on cash alone! Do you hear music?" Without waiting for an answer, she whirled around. "Those shoes with the three inch heels, they not only symbolize the patriarchy's effort to keep women helpless, but also women taking charge of and flaunting their own sexuality!"

David felt a little the way Henry Higgins must have when the rain finally fell on Spain.

"And red!" Grabbing his shoulders, she shook him back and forth. "Red symbolizes blood and blood symbolizes sacrifice and sacrifice symbolizes passion so red symbolizes passion!" Releasing him, she spun away, eyes gleaming.

The salesman leaned over the counter. "Is she all right?"

"She's having an epiphany." Trust Cynthia to have an epiphany with a credit card.

"These shoes symbolize a dream of playing like Michael Jordon!"

The salesman frowned. "Is it going to make a mess on the carpet?"

"I don't think so." David smiled so broadly his cheeks hurt. She'd done it, she'd managed to acknowledge a greater reality. There would be no tenth card. No swords. No body. It would be enough to know what the meaning was.

"Symbols, symbols tap into the collective unconscious! All of a sudden, poetry makes sense, although," she added throwing herself back into one of the chairs, "I still don't understand Shirley Maclaine." The chair, made for more sedate landings, tipped backwards. "Oh shit!"

Watching her hit the floor, head down and feet in the air, David had an epiphany of his own. As the chair landed solidly on top of her, he wondered if he should say anything. The Ten of Swords had been reversed. Realistically, there wasn't a lot of difference between being stabbed and being impaled but symbolically...

He checked the new meaning as the salesman – torn between laughter and fear of being sued – helped her up.

The Ten of Swords, reversed. In spiritual matters, the Seeker may now turn to higher powers for help.

He closed the book before Cynthia turned to face him. Higher powers. It was out of his hands. And thank God, ghod, gods, or
whoever
for that.

Rubbing one buttock, Cynthia limped over to the counter. "I think," she said, enthusiasm muted slightly, "I'll consider that a warning. The spiritual must be balanced with the practical."

Before David could agree, the cell phone rang.

"Augustine Textiles, Cynthia Augustine speaking."

Eyes locked on her face, David searched for an outward manifestation of the inner change. He couldn't see one and, as she frowned, his heart started to pound uncomfortably hard. Perhaps it wasn't over.

"That," Cynthia said as she tucked the phone back in the belt pouch, "was Madame Zora."

David started breathing again. "She wants to congratulate you on reaching enlightenment?"

"Not exactly. She wants her twenty bucks."

Every now and then, the appropriation of voice discussion reoccurs throughout the writing/reading community and we go through the whole males shouldn't write from a female point-of-view, heterosexuals shouldn't write from a homosexual point-of-view, Caucasians shouldn't write from a People of Colour (phrase used as shorthand for the many
different
non-Caucasian peoples of the world) point-of-view and I'm sure I'm missing a few.

I think people should write from whatever point-of-view is necessary to tell the story, but they should
never
write mindlessly. If you can't put yourself in your point-of-view character's place, feel what they're feeling and know why they're feeling it, then don't do it. If your young, straight Asian university student is thinking and feeling like an older, gay, Caucasian, part-time bookstore clerk, part-time writer, then you're doing it wrong.

I was living in Toronto's Chinatown when I wrote this and there were some nasty gang wars going on at the time. Not that gang wars are ever anything but nasty. A body was found in the park across from our apartment and a wounded young man who spoke no English – at least to us – collapsed in our stairwell but staggered off before the police arrived. The shooting outside the restaurant was, unfortunately, not stopped by two teenagers and a dragon.

"Donna. Your grandmother has asked to see you."

Incipient panic thrust Donna Chen up out of the chair and nearly pushed her voice over the edge to shrill. "Me?" She waved an agitated arm towards the backyard where her three cousins were playing a subdued game of croquet. "What about them?"

Her Aunt Lily, her mother's younger sister, stepped back out of the family room and shook her head. "You're the oldest. And besides, she asked to see you."

Donna recognized the tone; her mother had one just like it. Ears burning, she stood and headed for the stairs. With her aunt marching close behind, she felt as though she were being escorted to her own execution.
There's someone dying in my house. That just doesn't happen in the suburbs.

Just outside the master bedroom, she paused, resisting the pressure of a small hand between her shoulder-blades. "What if she dies while I'm with her?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Donna, you're almost eighteen; you're not a child. And you'll be in a lot more trouble if she dies before you get there. Now go."

The bedroom had been her parents' until eight months ago when her grandmother had fallen, broken her hip and been unable to live alone any longer. She had been frail then. Now, with eight months of pain behind her and death so near, she looked ethereal, no longer real.

To Donna's surprise, the curtains were open and, instead of the gloom she'd been expecting, the afternoon sun filled the room with golden light. Father Xiangao, the priest from Our Lady of Sorrows, sat to the right of the bed, her mother to the left. She paused just inside the door, but her grandmother saw her and, murmuring something in Mandarin, beckoned her forward. Determined to make the best of a bad situation – given that she had no choice – Donna moved to the end of the bed and paused again, her knees pressed up against the mattress.

"Yes, grandmother?"

The bird-claw hand beckoned her closer still.

Eyes on the neutral landscape of the yellow blanket, its surface barely rippled by the wasted body beneath, Donna shuffled past her mother's knees and jerked to a stop when fingers of skin and bone clutched suddenly at her wrist. Heart in her throat, she somehow managed not to pull away.

"Chun Chun, woh yu ishi don-shi ne shu-ino."

Although her grandmother spoke fluent English, in the last few months she'd reverted solely to the language of her childhood. As Donna spoke no Mandarin, Father Xiangao translated.

"She wants to give you something. She brought it with her from Kweilin. It carries very powerful..." he paused and asked a question before continuing. "It carries very powerful protection."

Donna allowed her hand to be pulled forward and, curious in spite of herself, leaned down for a closer look. Although she didn't understand the words, she understood the tone. Her grandmother considered this to be very, very important.

Three inches long and about one high, a red and gold enamel dragon on cheap tin backing – the kind they sold for less than a dollar at most of the junkier Chinatown stores – lay on Donna's palm, still warm and slightly damp from her grandmother's hand. This was it? Donna turned it over. Meant to be worn as a brooch, the pin had been bent and straightened more than once and rust pitted the clasp that secured it.

"Shing Li-ung."

Startled, Donna glanced over at the priest. Maybe she was missing the point of this.

"That's its name," the priest said softly. "It means Shining Heart."

Donna could feel her mother's presence behind her and knew what was expected. "Thank you, Grandmother." It could have been a lot worse.

The grip the old woman had on her wrist relaxed a little and then surprisingly, convulsively tightened again. Her eyes opened very wide and she appeared to be staring at a patch of sunlight on the ceiling. Then thin lips curved up in a wondering smile and, just for that moment, Donna realized that this woman had once been eighteen too.

She breathed out the name of her husband, long dead, and never breathed in again.

Trying very hard not to freak, Donna pulled her hand out of the circle of slack fingers as Father Xiangao reached over and gently closed the old woman's eyes. The imprint of the death grip clung to her wrist. Frantic scrubbing against her jeans, did nothing to erase the feeling.

Then behind her, over the drone of the priest's prayers, she heard her mother crying. Puzzled, she turned. She had seen her mother cry before, but never like this. Understanding came slowly. The dragon dropped to the blanket, momentarily forgotten, as Donna drew the older woman's head down to her shoulder and held her tightly while she wept. Her own tears were not so much for her grandmother as for the sudden knowledge that someday she would be the daughter who grieved.

*

"So this is the family heirloom, eh?" Bradley grinned down at the dragon and then up at his sister. "Boy are you ever lucky that you're the oldest and it went to you. I mean, this must be worth, oh, seventy-nine cents."

"Very funny."

"Maybe you should rent a safety deposit box. Wouldn't want it to be stolen..." He rubbed a thumb over the enamel. "Hey, it looks kinda sad."

"What are you talking about?" Donna took the dragon pin back and frowned down at it. It did look sad; its eyes were half closed and its great golden moustaches appeared to be drooping around the down-turned corners of its mouth. Its whole posture spoke of melancholy. "Yeah, I suppose it does. Do you miss grandma,
Shing Li-ung
?"

"
Shing Li-ung
?" Bradley repeated.

"That's its name."

"Oh great. You've got a piece of junk jewelry with a name." He reached out one finger and stroked the red scaled curve of its tail. "So, grandma didn't mention she had a pair of ancient family chopsticks or anything for me to guard and revere did she?"

"No." Donna sighed. "Just one seventy-nine cent dragon."

"For you."

"I was there."

"Yeah, well, if you don't want old
Shing Li-ung
, I suppose I'll take it."

She stared at him in surprise. "You'll what?"

"I'll take it." He looked disinterested in his own words – the way only a young man almost seventeen could. "It'll look kinda cool on my jean jacket. Very ethnic. And besides, Chinese dragons are supposed to bring you luck."

"Grandma said it was for protection."
And she died giving it to me.
Just for an instant, Donna felt the clasp of dead fingers around her wrist. "I think I'll hang onto it." She scooped her canvas shoulder bag up off the floor and forced the pin through the thick fabric. "Besides, I'm the one who's starting university in six days; I'm the one who's going to need the luck."

"Suit yourself," Bradley shrugged, his expression unreadable, and slouched out of the family room.

*

"
Shing Li-ung
?"

Three inches had become thirty feet; thirty feet of shimmering scarlet and gold in constant flowing motion. Tooth and claw gleamed, strength and power showed in every curve, in every edge, in every point. Its eyes were deep and black and the light from a thousand stars shone in their depths. The air around it smelled strongly of ginger and when she drew it into her lungs, it burned just a little.

It was frightening, but she wasn't frightened – which made perfect sense at the time.

Then it bent its great head and asked her a question.

She spread her hands. "I don't speak Mandarin."

It frowned and asked again.

"If you don't speak English, how about French?" She felt it sigh, the warm wave of its breath rolling over her, sweeping her away until the dragon was no more than a red and gold speck in the distance.

And then she woke up.

The red and gold speck remained and for a moment the dream seemed more real than her bedroom. But only for a moment as normalcy fell quickly back into place. A narrow beam of light from a street-lamp at the curb spilled through a crack in the curtains and across her shoulder bag propped on the top of her dresser. It illuminated the pin, igniting the enamel into a cold fire.

Pretty but hardly mystical, Donna decided, and padded across the room to twitch the curtains closed. With one hand full of fabric, she paused, frowned, and took a closer look at the dragon.
Shing Li-ung
no longer looked sad.

It looked disgusted.

*

"Hey Bradley, have you seen my bag, I had it when I got home this afternoon but I haven't seen it... oh, there it is." She moved her brother's feet and scooped the bag up off the end of the couch. "What are you watching?"

"Television."

"Very informative." A quick glance at
Shing Li-ung
showed it still looked disgusted. Its expression hadn't changed in the last four weeks and Donna was beginning to believe she'd imagined the whole thing. Although, considering that it had just spent three hours pointed at prime time programming, it had reason for looking disgusted tonight. "This show any good?"

"It's crap."

"Then why are you watching it?"

"What else am I supposed to do?" Bradley jabbed at the remote. The new program didn't look significantly different; same dizzy blonde, same square-jawed hunk, same disgustingly cute kid.

Donna sighed and sat down on the arm of the couch. Always prickly, since Labour Day Bradley had been developing a noticeable attitude. "Is everything all right at school?"

"Why shouldn't it be?"

"I don't know, you just seem kind of, well, cranky." Not the right word but she couldn't think of a better one.

"Cranky?" He spat it back at her. "Little kids get cranky."

"Look, I just wondered..."

"Well, you can stop. You don't know shit anymore about what's going on with me."

She should have remembered. He'd been impossible when the year between them had left him behind in junior high. God only knew what he'd get into now. And now, he was old enough to get into things that could have serious consequences. She was the oldest. He was, to a certain extent, her responsibility.

"So," she tried again, "how's Craig?"

"How should I know?"

"But he's your best friend."

"Was. I have other friends now."

Great. "Bradley..."

"Kae Bing."

Donna blinked, brought to a full stop. Finally she managed a weak, "What?"

"Kae Bing. It's my name."

"But you hate that name, you never let anyone use it. You told Aunt Lily it sounded like a chicken puking."

"Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I want to get in touch with my Chinese heritage."

"Bradley... Okay," she raised a hand in surrender, "Kae Bing, that makes as much sense as black guys in the seventies calling themselves Kunta Kinte."

"African-Canadian."

"What?"

"Nobody says black guys anymore. You're the oldest, I thought you would have known that. Everybody has a hyphen now. Oh, pardon me, everybody who isn't white has a hyphen now."

The laugh sounded forced, even to her. "Oh come on, we live in Don Mills, the definitive suburb; you can't get any whiter than that."

He didn't smile. "Looked in a mirror lately, Chun Chun? Well I hate to break this to you, but you aren't white. You're what's known as a visible ethnic minority. And what's really disgusting, you go out of your way to fit the stereotype." He began ticking points off on his fingers, the edge in his voice sharping with every point. "You're quiet, you're polite. I've never seen you lose your temper. You don't smoke, you don't drink, you probably don't even kiss with your mouth open. You're a dutiful daughter, a good student – 'specially in all those subjects us Asians are supposed to be good at like math and physics. You even play ping pong for fucksake."

Donna opened and closed her mouth a few times but all she managed to get out was, "What's wrong with playing ping pong?"

"Not a damn thing. It is the only sport we slants excel at after all." He threw the remote to the floor and flung himself up onto his feet. "Well, you can keep playing by their rules if you want to, Donna..." He weighted the name and threw it at her as he stomped out of the room. "...but I quit."

*

"But Mom, you should have heard him. He was really angry."

"Young men his age are always angry."

"Not like this." Donna paced the length of the kitchen trying to think of some way to make her mother understand. "He wanted me to call him Kae Bing."