Typical American (19 page)

guy.

"That guy has lotta, lotta money."

Mona and Callie nodded; they'd heard this before.

"And because he has so much money, that guy is not have one wife, like here. That guy is have five, ten wives."

"Ten wives!" Mona and Callie were amazed.

"Sure." Ralph shrugged. "Chinese guys, those rich guys, they have as many wives they like. I'm talking about those guys, really rich.

"So my grandmother's father, he has ten, twenty wives. And so he has lotta children. Mister! Lotta children. Some boys, some girls. And most of those children, they are good ones. But so happen, one little boy not so good. This boy is something the matter with his head." Ralph pointed to his own head. "I don't know what's happen. Maybe one day he fall down, hit his head on one piece rock. Anyhow, this boy does all kind of crazy thing. One day he is play with knife, you know? Big cutting knife. Another day he is throw everything into the lake. And nighttime, he is not sleep in regular bed. Everyone else sleeps regular bed, he sleeps in some kind of strange bed. You know what that bed is? That bed is a big box he is built by himself, make out of one piece wood. And inside the box is not the regular blanket. Inside is all those paper money."

"Money!"

"That's right. Inside is all those paper money, big pile, and when nighttime comes, that's where he's sleeping. Instead of use the regular blanket, he's hide himself inside there.

"Of course, his father, mother, everybody, thinks he is crazy. But what can they do? Father blames mother, mother blames grandmother. Everybody crazy now. Then one day, the boy say he's like to leave the family. So father talks to grandmother, mother talks to grandmother, and finally grandmother says okay."

"So then what?"

"So then the boy leaving."

"And then?"

"And then nobody knows what's happen to him." Ralph nodded thoughtfully. "But I think maybe that boy go somewhere, have children. And then those children maybe come to United States, and then maybe one of them has a son who come to New York, become manager of grease factory and so forth." He winked.

"How could it be! That's not true. He's making it up!" Theresa's voice pulsed when she heard. "Your father is talking nonsense. I've never heard such a story!"

Still Ralph laughed and insisted, "Sure is true," until finally she confronted him. "You're just joking," she said, "but the girls believe you"

Ralph gave her a look. "You have nothing to say" he said — what he always said now. There was uncertainty in his voice, though, and later Theresa hearkened to this. Grover might be rubbing off on Ralph, but Ralph was still Ralph. Or was he? One day she happened into his office, only to discover an entire wall of it papered with inspirational quotes.

ALL RICHES BEGIN IN AN IDEA.

WHAT YOU CAN CONCEIVE, YOU CAN ACHIEVE.

DON'T WAIT FOR YOUR SHIP TO COME IN, SWIM OUT TO IT.

FOLLOW THE HERD, YOU END UP A COW.

She sank into the desk chair, thinking cheng yu — idiomatic sayings, the Chinese had a lot of them too. But no, these were different. She stood back up; the quotes fluttered with her motion, a flock of starlings.

YOU CAN NEVER HAVE RICHES IN GREAT QUANTITY UNLESS YOU WORK YOURSELF INTO A WHITE HEAT OF DESIRE FOR MONEY.

There were books everywhere. Making Money. Be Your Own Boss! Ninety Days to Power and Success. Theresa pictured her brother, feet up on the desk like Pete the super, thumbing through these. Where was the Ph.D. he'd worked so hard for? Helen had taken it to a special place to have it framed, Theresa recalled. Now it languished on a high shelf, under a box full of cash register tapes.

Ralph was teaching the girls again. "There are five, six people, look for some treasure. One man tell them, the treasure buried under a special sign, look like a W. He say, you see the W, then dig there. So the people look, look, look. All over. Finally, give up. Nobody can find the W. Impossible. They ask the man, where is that W we cannot find it? And he point up, in the sky. And then they see that the shape of the trees make a big W. 'You people,' he say, 'you all look for a small w. The big W, you don't see it.' You girls understand what I'm talking?"

The girls nodded.

"Got to keep eye on the big picture," Ralph told them. "The important thing. Don't crawl up in the end of the bull's horn." He paused. "And you know what's the important thing in this country?"

The girls shook their heads.

"Money. In this country, you have money, you can do anything. You have no money, you are nobody. You are Chinaman! Is that simple."

If only Theresa hadn't compromised herself! If only she could do more than bow her head and listen, listen, listen. But Ralph was right. Theresa had nothing to say, not anymore; her authority had evanesced. And so she listened on, listening for so long that some of what Ralph had to say almost made sense.

She'd seen how poor people were treated in the hospital; they died waiting. And to be nonwhite in this society was indeed to need education, accomplishment — some source of dignity. A white person was by definition somebody. Other people needed, across their hearts, one steel rib.

But what was Ralph teaching? Money worship! On her own, when she could hear herself, she was outraged. She could not approve, she thought; surprised at the same time to realize that silenced, she was another person. A more seduceable person, like Helen. How roundly Ralph's little store was succeeding! With just that simple sign, fried chicken. She could not begrudge him his industrious amazement. Sometimes, watching the customers file in, the sales ring up, she began to see commerce as part of the stream of life. Wasn't it? And when Helen sighed happily and said, Now I've got my love seat back, or That's enough for a bridge table, it did seem a brand of alchemy that turned those metal trays of mottled chicken, with their loose flaps of pimply skin, into a happy household.

Ralph showed off his product. "Ni kan" he said — look at this. "Outside, special blend of spices. Inside, tender and juicy. What could be better?" He still wore a pair of mechanical pencils clipped to his shirt pocket, just as he had in his professor days, but now he wore a white apron too, and a brown pot holder. "This one, perfect. This" — he used his tongs as a pointer — "is so-called undercooked. And this" — he pointed again — "is o-ver-done."

The girls jumped down from their seats on the big windowsill to taste. "They all taste good." Callie smacked her lips. Mona started on a second drumstick, eating just the skin.

"Forget how taste. Listen. Some are right and some are wrong," Ralph lectured.

The girls nodded, kicking the wood panelling below the takeout window.

"Will you try one?" Ralph asked Theresa.

She hesitated. Really she wanted very much to taste it and tell him how good it was. But she couldn't.

ZOI

"Just one bite. Special spices." "Delicious!" Helen told her, a wing in hand. "Delicious!" chorused the girls, their noses greasy. "Another time," Theresa promised.

When would that be? Talking to herself in the hospital, Theresa knew the answer — when she found out what Ralph was doing these days in his office. For following the proliferation of quotes had come something secret. First he and Grover put a lock on the door; then Ralph began to spend an hour or so in there alone, every night. What was that noise? A certain wha-ingg! over and over and over. "A cash register," said Helen. "But why would he be ringing a cash register?" It was very mysterious. Every night he rang, rang, rang, making a new register tape to replace the tape for the day.

Now Theresa curled up in her room by herself, trying to read. Was Grover sitting in her chair? In fact, the dining room table sat six; he wasn't necessarily in her seat, he could easily be in the seat next to hers. All the same, she wondered; and wondering, heard the noise from downstairs even more clearly. She applied herself to her book but still heard laughing, laughing. She felt the laughing. The noise seemed to emanate in rays from the page; she felt these on her face, a warm mask of embarrassment. Once a patient had come in to the hospital, her face burnt from a beauty treatment. The girl's cheek was blistered and raw and scabrous; a plain girl this was, young. She had asked, Would it scar? with the simple blinking fear of a fourteen-year-old. But when Theresa answered, "Probably," the girl had shrugged like a tough and said she didn't care.

Wasn't that the oldest tide in the world, Theresa thought now — one cared, then didn't care, cared, then didn't care.

Downstairs, a lull. Grover was telling a joke. The punch line. More laughter. Theresa tried to ignore it, scrunching down her pillow to support her back. Though she had not read the page in front of her, she turned it anyway, vaguely hoping the next page would prove more involving — that the action, maybe even the sound of paper being flipped, would sharpen her concentration. It had worked before. But then, singing! She couldn't believe it. Grover was singing: "Some en-chanted eve-ning, you may see a strang-er ..."

She sat forward. Her pillow inched up the wall. Applause.

Another song: "Make of our hands one hand. Make of our hearts one heart."

More applause. So he liked love songs. What did that mean? He had a surprisingly resonant voice, which had literally moved her, quite against her will, to the door. Grover sang more. Another plaintive love song, she didn't recognize this one; though as she listened, she began to hear, beyond his voice, the delight of her family. And that pierced her, even as she endeavored to doubt she was hearing that at all — Grover's voice taking on

that special keenness of beauty that is half a matter of the exquisitely rippling air, and half a matter of pain.

Here he had her, ear to wood, an eavesdropper in her own house. The light from the setting sun glinted on the brass-tone doorknob. Grover seemed to be singing his sad song forever, but she thought she could hear now that he wasn't really sad. He could be sad, then smile and nod to the clapping; whereas she had sunk with genuine weakness to the floor. No one had come to bring her supper. Of course not; they were waiting for Grover to finish singing. Before, it had been different. The first time Grover came, Helen, feeling bad, had sent up a giant bowl of shrimp and peas with Virginia ham. How festive it was! Those sweet pink shrimp especially, a luxury. Helen had included a good paper napkin too, the expensive kind they used for company, and one of their only two pairs of real ivory chopsticks, which Helen had brought with her from China.

But now they'd all gotten used to the idea that Theresa would do this — hide herself away, for her brother, for her family — and as they'd gotten used to it, it began to seem silly to treat the invisible Theresa as company. Theresa had said so herself. She preferred wooden chopsticks, she'd said, the ivory ones were too slippery.

So that was what she got. Once. Twice. She wondered if they were going to remember her at all tonight. Grover had stopped singing. Now he was talking. Was Helen looking for a chance to stand up and go? It seemed to Theresa that Helen could leave if she wanted to, that it was Ralph to whom Grover needed to speak, about business. Even as she thought that, though, she could hear everyone laughing again, the girls too. She heard their piping voices — "Uncle Grover! Uncle Grover!" — and knew he was speaking to them all, the whole family; and that they, in turn, were all listening.

"So then what? Did you get to eat?" Old Chao's voice on the telephone was raspy with concern. "Finally, I did" Theresa told him. "Callie brought it up." She

blessed her niece in her heart. "And do you know what he does nowr

"What?"

"He brings beer."

"Beerr

"Beer! They drink it with dinner. Sometimes my brother even lets the children have a sip."

Old Chao fell silent. "I don't know why you call me" he said finally. "I thought you wanted to end this. Clean. Snap like a twig. Good-by."

Had she said that? She had. But had she meant it? Would it bring back her place in the family? She couldn't think for the noise downstairs. Such riotous laughter. What could be so funny? Theresa couldn't imagine, until Gallic knocked.

Fried chicken.

"Your mother didn't cook tonight?"

Callie shook her head no. "Uncle Grover brought supper." She shuffled her feet.

The next morning, Theresa found a special breakfast laid out on the kitchen table. All Chinese food — a bowl of sweet, hot soybean milk, and two long, twisting oil sticks to dip in it; also two onion cakes. A dream meal. Sitting down, she touched everything before she ate, shaking her head; she felt like crying. She took a long, greedy draw of the scallion smell. Where had Helen gotten hold of it all? She'd thought you had to go to Chinatown. And where was Helen so she could thank her? Helen had to be up, around somewhere. But she didn't seem to be. So Theresa ate, waiting. In the thin light, even the whirling boomerang print of the vinyl tablecloth seemed tranquil; it was easy to imagine Helen sitting across from her, head bowed, asking forgiveness. Of course, I forgive you, Theresa answered, tipping the bowl to her mouth. She lowered the bowl, only to behold — rising above its rim like the morning sun — Grover. "Good morning."

Theresa swallowed again, so hard her heart thudded, or that's how it seemed, everything oddly linked. "Good morning."

"That's some spread you've got there."

"What are you doing here?"

"We were so late calling it a night that I had to camp out on that new Hide-A-Bed of yours. Very comfortable."

"This?" She pointed to the bowl.

"My, ah, assistant, Chuck, made a run out for it. I understand Helen likes this sort of thing."

He leaned across the table, so close she could smell his aftershave. He wore something spicy, thick, a cloak of scent. Or maybe it wasn't an after-shave, for he hadn't shaved. From her plate he picked up the oil stick she hadn't eaten yet, dipped it in the soybean milk. "Delicious," he said, taking a bite. He dipped the oil stick in again. It dripped onto the boomerang tablecloth. Then he kissed her on the mouth. Or was it a kiss? Theresa almost did not know; only later did she recollect that what he had actually done was run his tongue over her lips — he'd licked her. True enough. Why hadn't she screamed? She ought to have screamed! Instead, she had kept hold of herself, saving face. She'd even felt a certain satisfaction when he nodded, mock-impressed. He took another leisurely bite of the oil stick before proffering it to her.

Mornings, Theresa had trouble getting out of bed. She bought an extra alarm clock, which she set to go off two minutes after her original one; then a third clock, to go off after the second. She placed the trio on her nightstand, on her dresser, on the windowsill. In this way she was able to get herself out of bed every day. She was not always able to make herself do other things — to brush her teeth, for example, or to put cream on her face. These were tasks that, more and more, she did at the clinic where she'd recently, finally, started her practice. Young female doctor, just out of training. How could she afford to appear anything but composed? She stood at a large shallow

sink with a swan neck faucet and steel-edged mirror and, by the shadowless light, rinsed her eyes with cool water. She tidied her hair.

She tried to talk to Helen. "These days" she said, "we seem to be far, far away from each other"

"Are we?"

Was this the Helen she knew? Helen's glance was evasive, her face expressionless; she could have been holding still for a department store cosmetician.

"Things have changed"

"I don't know what you mean"

Theresa tried to participate more at supper. One evening, Ralph was talking about hiring an employee. He had interviewed three people, two of whom seemed possibilities.

"Hmmm," Theresa began. "Is the boy with the red hair — "

Ralph loudly sucked the cheek out of a steamed fish head.

"I wonder, have you considered that maybe — "

"Is this a meeting?" said Ralph.

Theresa looked at Helen, who looked down. "Isn't it?"

Ralph flipped the fish head over. "Ahh." He set about sucking the other cheek out. "Umm." He set the fish skull on a plate. "Meeting adjourned." He winked at Mona and Callie, who started to smile.

"Eat your supper," Helen snapped.

At least Helen still had that much feeling for her. Theresa ate with the children. "Little Brother," she said, after a while.

Ralph winked at the girls again.

"Eat your supper," Helen repeated.

Ralph grinned.

"Is something funny?" Theresa said.

"Funny?"

"Is there some joke?" Theresa felt like a schoolteacher. "Are you drunk?"

Ralph positioned the fish skull so that it faced his sister, open-

ing and shutting its jaw as he mimicked her. "Are you drunk?"

Theresa stared.

"He is drunk," whispered Helen in English.

"This is a meeting," he continued, switching to English too. "A meeting with a rotten egg."

"She's not a rotten egg," said Helen.

"What does that mean, rotten egg?" Callie wanted to know.

"Just eat," said Helen.

"Chinese expression," said Theresa evenly. "Meaning a woman of no virtue."

"What's a woman of—?"

"Eat," ordered Helen. Then to Ralph, "Enough."

"Roll away, egg," squawked Ralph. "Roll away."

"This" said Theresa, her voice tight, "is what I knew would happen. This is Grover's influence"

"It's terrible," agreed Ralph, still working the fish jaw. He clucked. "Grover's influence. Just terrible."

" 'Near ink, one gets stained black.* You have completely forgotten how to behave."

"Oh really," said Ralph, in a normal voice now. "And how about you? Two boyfriends now, one wasn't enough, huh?" He made smacking noises in the air.

Later he would regret his cruelty; it wasn't even true that she had two boyfriends, he knew that. But he said it anyway, a small man making fun.

"Eat your supper," said Helen. And to Ralph, warningly: "Your Older Sister, don't forget."

"Older Sister!" Ralph laughed. "My Jiejie with two boyfriends! Kisses everybody! Everybody!" More smacks in the air. The girls looked up. Ralph cradled the fish head with his two hands, stroking it with his thumbs. "O love, love." He kissed it. "Love! O love!"

Callie looked to her mother. Mona tittered. "Love!" she echoed. "Love, love!" Ralph gave her the fish head to kiss also.

"Stop," said Helen.

i

"She kisses everyone," Ralph told Mona. "You know who she kissed?"

"Who?"

"She kissed Uncle Henry, and Uncle Grover too."

"Uncle Henry?" said Mona.

"Stop," said Helen.

Callie's eyes widened. "And Uncle Grover?"

"Stop."

"Like this." Ralph put the fish head to Mona's cheek. "Like a fish."

"To me too, to me too!" cried Gallic

"Stop."

"Smack!" said Ralph.

"Smack!" shouted Mona. "Smack, smack!"

"What's the matter, are you worried about the mortgage?"

"Please forgive us."

Theresa zipped the clothes suitcase shut.

The children, when they saw Theresa by the front door, looked concerned. "Suitcases!" said Mona.

"Moving to another house?" asked Callie.

"An apartment."

"Going on vacation?" asked Mona.

Theresa nodded gently, smoothing Mona's cowlick. "Going on vacation."

"On vacation in an apartment?" puzzled Callie.

Theresa gave her a kiss. "Sounds funny, doesn't it."

The taxi honked.

As Theresa appraised her new apartment from the doorway — four bare walls, two filmy windows — she could not help but imagine what Helen would think of the decor. This metal bed in the corner, for instance, with what Helen would have called its burnt sienna spread; she thought about how Helen had learned that name, they all had, from Callie's big box of Crayola crayons. Sixty-four of them. Such a rich array, compared to this small dresser — what brown was that? And what color was this linoleum floor? Mist gray. A radiator. A kitchenette. Always she had faulted Helen for caring so about looks. But of course it was easy to be indifferent about them herself when she could count on Helen to spruce things up. Now she longed for a set of white frilly curtains. What had Helen called them? Cafe curtains. The kind with eyelets, she wanted, and to go with them, a scatter rug. And maybe a love seat too, that folded out to a bed, in case anyone wanted to stay.

Is to leave a family to embrace it? She perched on her suitcases. She ought to unpack them, but was too tired. Which meant she ought to sleep. But how could she lie down on that bed? Upstairs, the plumbing ran. She heard a whooshing, like the sound of a defective heart — someone flushing the toilet. Then, a dying

groan — the sink. A stranger, washing his hands. Cradling her head the way Ralph had cradled the fish skull, she cried. Why was she shutting herself up in her room forever? Because she could not endure that one strange sound that was Grover, she had put herself in a place where all the noises were strange. Because she could not stand to be sometimes fed, sometimes not, she had put herself in a place where she would never hear that ladylike knock, low on the door, that was Callie's. Callie always knocked; Mona could never remember. Yet what would Theresa do to have Mona bang open her door right now! Look, Auntie, look, her niece would cry, and when she opened her hand there would be a shiny flake of mica to see, or maybe a bisected worm, all squiggly confusion. This apartment could use a few worms, Theresa thought. Instead, she was the squiggly confusion. Surely she would rather be taunted than subject herself to the smells of this place — smoke, she made out, and other odors. She had decided on this. She had chosen it. Yet her choice seemed someone else's choice. The suitcase under her slipped; she adjusted her weight. She watched herself wipe her eyes in the mirror over the dresser. Once a Chang-kee, always a Chang-kee. What an ugly woman she was! The room lost light, slowly. And then there was nothing to do but stand up, and feel for a switch, and unpack.

ened. One day he brought a pumice stone out of his suit jacket pocket, and cream; he brandished a nail file, cuticle scissors, a bottle of nail polish. "One manicure, coming up," he announced, and would not be deterred even when she pointed out that he had forgotten to bring cotton balls. "Ah, cotton balls," he murmured. "That female essential." "And polish remover," she said. She asked him, "Did you ever put on polish before?" as if she did it all the time. He insisted that he didn't have to know what he was doing, then went on to get cream and polish all over the love seat. "I never saw such a job," Helen laughed. She did not even mind that he'd spotted the sky blue velveteen upholstery. He'd done it so endearingly! — trying afterward to clean it off with a fine white handkerchief.

"Don't," she said.

"Damn! Am I making it worse?"

She laughed and let him paint her toenails too, something that would not have occurred to her. She asked, "What did you tell Ralph?" "He thinks I'm waiting on him. 'Make yourself at home,' he told me." Helen winced. But when Grover blew on her toenails and proclaimed, "Now I've got you," she let him kiss her. "I thank you humbly," he whispered, as he slid a finger between the buttons of her blouse. "Just your belly," he assured her. "That's it." She let him nest his fingertip in her belly button. "Ahh, you've got me now," he murmured. "I'm satisfied."

Sometimes while he touched her, she thought how much she'd enjoy him once he'd left. Odd as it sounded, the considering of him was almost her deepest pleasure. A man with monogrammed shirts, a maid, a mansion, and all he wanted was to finger her belly button. She felt herself to be someone else, someone much prettier. A commanding presence. What power in pliancy! If only there weren't her husband to think of, right underfoot, at most six feet away. What kept him from knowing what was up? Some linoleum tile, maybe some plywood, maybe the buzz of the fluorescent tube light. Mostly his own absorption. She could not contemplate it. And yet she did. Whenever the ringing

stopped, she held her breath, believing, Now he is going to come storming upstairs. Or would he be too hurt to storm? She could see him, white-faced, stunned; but preferred to see him red-faced, red-necked, cleaver in hand, bellowing so loud the neighbors would call the police. Such a scene! While Grover tried to sweet-talk him, he would hack a chair to pieces. He would lunge forward, enraged, dangerous; nothing would placate him, except for her to beg his forgiveness, hugging his knees — finally sharing a place with him, at the center of things.

One day after supper, she'd found her apron pockets full of sugar. That was how it all started. Grover had been singing; the windows were open. Just that week the lilacs had thrown their first flowers. The family was eating by candlelight — Grover's idea, naturally. Earlier, he'd brought the candles out of his pockets and sleeves like a magician. How the girls had squealed! And how reluctant she'd been to leave the flicker and glow of the dining room for the hard-lit kitchen. Grover had sensed it. "Forget the cooking next time," he told her. "How about next time I bring the vitdes?"

"Fried chicken!" Ralph joked. "Take-out!" Helen laughed, a little drunk too. The idea of a guest bringing his own supper! Inconceivable. As was a guest filling her apron pockets with sugar. She suspected Grover at once. Before leaving, he had nestled his face into his shoulder like a bird, so that only one eye showed, giving her a cartoon wink. Of course, she checked with the girls anyway. Casually. Sugar? Solemn denials. No guilty laughter. This was before she found, on the sole of her shoe, a heart drawn in pencil. There were words in the middle. She held the shoe up. It read, Don't tell R.