Typical American (25 page)

Grover, Grover, Grover.

Another small consolation — Grover's house, right out in the backyard. Why did that matter to him? It wasn't a real house. Even for a doghouse, it was flimsy. It wasn't staked properly to the ground. Still he told Theresa, "I don't ever want to see the cats outside."

"They don't ever go outside."

Just to be sure, Ralph began to train Grover to recognize the cats' scent. He rubbed an old washcloth on the cats, then presented it to Grover, yanking on the leash, so that Grover growled. After a while Grover would growl whenever given the washcloth, even without the leash. One day Grover grabbed the washcloth in his teeth and shook his head wildly, grinding his jaws.

"Good," said Ralph. "Good. If those cats ever come out of the house, you do just that."

He said this almost hoping they would.

But Helen and Theresa and Mona and Callie all knew the rules; and so he waited, as he waited for everything, in vain. It was like waiting for the world to turn. What a ridiculous idea!

Until it's turned: one day he found out through Arthur Smith that the woods behind their house had been bought by a Chinese developer.

"Not a man, I hope," said Ralph, "by last name of Ding?"

No place in the house; and now, with Grover Ding returning, no place outside of it either. Ralph circled. Leaving him what? The doghouse? Construction wasn't starting for another six weeks. That gave him some time. To do what? Ralph walked the dog through the woods, pondering. He wondered what his old partner had planned. Where would the road be? And why had Grover, who had been helping him, suddenly turned against him? His stomach burned. How he'd like to be working with Grover again! Except how could he work for a man who had sold him a store that was sinking? He considered what he should say if he ran into Grover. Should he say, Grover, I'd like you to meet Grover? He laughed out loud at the idea. Grover, meet Grover! He resolved to laugh in Grover's face.

Then, even as he rehearsed, he spotted his old partner. The scene was perfectly ordinary. Grover was hiking, with Chuck behind him, to the top of a small hill. He stopped and gestured grandly. Chuck nodded and gestured too, in seeming imitation; they could have been playing a children's game. Both were wearing suits. Grover's was light tan, Chuck's was blue. Grover's jacket was open. Chuck's was shut, and rode up over his hips. As always, Chuck was wearing cowboy boots, but these were a pair Ralph hadn't seen before, blood red. Ralph was surprised how small Grover looked next to the woods and Chuck. And yet clearly Grover was the big shot. He strode on; he surveyed his surroundings. He felt his breast pocket for a cigarette. The late afternoon sun was behind his back, so that he glowed at the edges — shadow, penumbra.

Ralph scrambled partway up the slope. "Grover?"

Grover squinted down at him.

"It's Ralph. Ralph Chang." The dog leash tangled around his shins.

"Ralph Chang," said Grover. "My favorite phone caller."

Chuck laughed. "How can you talk to him? He's in jail."

"Of course I remember you," said Grover.

"The one with the wife," said Chuck.

*74

Grover turned away, lit his cigarette, and puffed.

"Good with her hands," pressed Chuck. "Isn't that right? Had a nice love seat?"

Grover grinned broadly. "I did enjoy your... upholstery." His gold tooth gleamed out from his dark face.

stop signs, through red lights. Screeching. "The police are going to come after you," she said. But their town had become a town without police. They bounded over a bump, landing with such a jolt that the glove compartment door popped open; Helen screamed with fright, then began to cry. "The maps" she said. "Stop. Please. Everything's falling out." They were in an older part of town now, a part of town they would have moved to if they could have afforded it, with "mature landscaping"; it was what Helen had hoped their neighborhood would look like in twenty years. Bucolic. Now the same rambling streets and stone walls and enormous trees that had signified peace, though, turned ominous. Gunning his way up a long hill, Ralph sides wiped a metal garbage can; empty, it fell racketing down the incline. A child shrieked. Helen tried to turn and see what had happened, but her neck locked with fear. The climb grew steeper. "What's the matter?" she whispered. "What's the matter?"

They had reached the top of the hill. Ralph slowed for the first time. He stopped. The motor idled. "You tell me" he said. "You tell me what's the matter." His eyes glittered; if he were a child, Helen thought, she would put him to bed for fever. She would soak a washcloth with cold water for his forehead; she could almost feel his cheek under her hand, moist and hot.

The car started down. "You breathe" he told her. "You take a deep breath and tell me what happened between you and Grover, or I will steer this car right into this tree."

He headed for an oak the width of a small cabin, swerving away at the last second. Helen was thrown so hard against the door that her head bumped the window glass. Ralph careened toward another one. "No brakes!" he shouted. "Do you hear me! No brakes! You tell me! You tell me!"

Terrified, Helen opened her mouth, but shuo bu chu lai, she could not speak.

He swerved again, laughing. They were picking up more speed. "Grover! Grover! Grover!" he shouted. "Talk!" He ricocheted off a curb. "Talk!"

*77

Helen grabbed the door handle. The door flew open.

"I can't hear you!" Ralph yelled, steering straight down the hill now. Helen's door swung back and forth like a broken wing; Helen clung to the dashboard. "I can't hear you! I can't hear you! What's that you say?" Helen slid off her seat, down into the footwell. "Louder!" yelled Ralph. "Louder!"

*79

"Where are they," Callie complained.

"Maybe they've been murdered," Mona said. "Shot with machine guns."

"Time for bed right this minute."

What was the matter? Theresa tried not to worry as she ushered the girls upstairs. After she finished the dishes, she would call the police again, she decided. She prepared to feed the dog, who probably should have been fed hours before. Canned food instead of dry, a special treat.

Outside, it was not an evening in which a person could imagine catastrophe elbowing its determined way toward her. She relaxed a notch, smelling barbecue and cut grass in the air. The sky shimmered an even tiger yellow she had not known to fall in the range of atmospheric effects; she beheld it with a wonder much like that with which, recently, she considered her life. How had she come to where she was? She hardly knew. And what did that mean, that Janis was getting used to the situation? Impossible. Yet in the weeks since Helen first mentioned it, the idea had put on girth in Theresa's imagination, until now she could almost begin to envision a future in which she and Old Chao were reconciled with Janis. It was too much to hope for. Still, as she pulled Grover's empty bowl away from him, she did. No more closeting; she could have one part of Old Chao, Janis and the children another. The arrangement would be open. Accepted. Why not? In China, there were concubines — not what she wanted to be at all, but which proved human nature capable of different sorts of marriage. Maybe there could be a ceremony whereby someone like her was taken into the family; just thinking of it made her prickle with happiness. A string of fireflies flashed on the lawn, as though with kindred enthusiasm. Why not, they blinked, why not, why not? Theresa smiled on the lush world. Was she finally in love? She pictured the way Old Chao's ears rose when he grinned — they literally perked up, she'd never seen anything like it on a human; Old Chao hadn't believed it when she told him. But it's true, she'd insisted. They'd had to go to a depart-

ment store with a three-way mirror so that he could see for himself.

Grover snarled at her. "What's the matter, don't you think it's funny?" she asked him. "Or do you just want to know how I'm going to get the food out of the can?" She realized that she ought to have brought a spoon or something.

Grover growled again, more deeply, then lunged. The doghouse creaked and leaned.

"Easy. Just one more minute."

She eased the food into the dish with a stick. What had. happened to Ralph and Helen? A ladybug landed on her right wrist; she held still. In the late-day light, its maroon shell shone iridescent as mother-of-pearl.

Grover lunged again. His nose was wrinkled; he almost seemed to be smiling. Theresa nudged the half-full dish toward him with her free hand. "Calm down. Here it is, you don't have to wait anymore, okay?"

But Grover did not calm down. Ears pricked forward, gray teeth bared, he lunged a third time, at her. Was there something he didn't like? Her looks? Her smell? The ladybug's shell split, turning into wings as the house came unmoored; neck straining, Grover was dragging it behind him. The hinged door swung open. "Is this what you want?" Running, Theresa pitched the can at him, grazing his snarling snout. Lucky that he's dragging the house, she thought, just as the back and side walls tore away from the front. His spindly legs broke into a gallop. How much darker the evening had turned — an unnatural, swampy brown — and so quickly. Unable to make it to the front door, Theresa raced for the open garage; there she could at least arm herself with a shovel or rake. But then — the car! Everything was all right! As it wheeled quickly into the driveway, too fast, clipping the corner, Theresa saw that Ralph and Helen were both in it — thank heaven — if she kept on running, Ralph would be just able to cut Grover off. "The dog!" she yelled, waving. She dashed out in front of the headlights.

deliverance. The nurses know him from last time, with Helen, they know all about him, everyone knows; he's the last to approach the electric glass doors.

Bloody, Theresa lies on the gurney like a corpse. Her hair has turned wild; her face is slack. Doctors flock around her. As Ralph steps into the light, blinking, they are already breaking into a run. Shouting. Theresa's out ahead as they round a far corner. To where? Should he follow? He hurries down the hall, rounds the turn. Nothing. Helen too has disappeared on him again. Only he is lost. He tries another hall, another, another, thinks he recognizes a certain sink; he triggers an automatic door; ends up among linens. Finally he wends his way back, alone, to the lounge. He sits in a black chair. His lounge mates stare. How bloody he is! He hadn't realized how bloody. He should wash himself off, but at any time someone may come to tell him what's happening. Where is his sister? He waits, suspended, planning how to apologize. How to apologize? He hopes to find a way, to xiang banfa. He studies his heart. He tries to have faith. He prays for Theresa. He stands. He sits. He recalls the sight of Theresa in his headlights. Recalls the chill that descended upon him. How he felt humanity squeeze his hand, and how he let that hand go — shook himself free of it, even, like a young boy confronted with an overardent admirer. It was true that he had just heard, from his wife's soft mouth, words that set his mind to riot; she might as well have twisted knives in his ears. But what does that matter now? He saw his sister. And behind her, a second self, her stark shadow against the back wall of the garage — he saw that too. He saw its blackness growing, running, a creature waving monstrous, tentacled arms. It reached the ceiling. It had no face.

He tried to stop the car. He can remember the sweet, solid feel of the brake. But how instantly did his foot move? And even if it flashed, without hesitation, what of the cold heart above it? He's no philosopher, but he understands action without goodwill to equal as much as half an equation. He sees himself at the

wheel. He pictures Arthur Smith and his gun, and knows what it means to be armed — that one's house is one's own. In China, one lived in one's family's house. In America, one could always name whose house one was in; and to live in a house not one's own was to be less than a man. In America, a man had need of a weapon. He ought to have killed Grover Ding, that other intruder. Instead, a shadow slid from the wall. Sudden glare. Theresa's body thumped the bumper, gendy. Then he saw her — his sister, no shadow; her arms reached up the trembling car hood, the rough motor endowing her fine fingers, her knobby wrists, with strangely nervous life. They twitched like a beggar's, he recalls — her fingertips drummed — weakly imploring, though her eyes had already closed. Had he seen those eyes widen and shine red? They must have; he must have seen it happen. But he had not witnessed it. Fear had tracked her face, and he had not witnessed that either. She buckled, falling back onto the ground. He shut the engine.

Now Theresa hung in a coma. Ralph asked the doctors to spell the word for him. "C-O-M-A, coma," he repeated carefully. "Understand," he said, as though anyone could understand. How could sleep be so serious? It was like something out of Mona and Callie's fairy-tale book. And what would happen next? In the book, she would be kissed by a wandering prince; and then the happy ending would sprawl across the pages, in scroll-wreathed letters, with purple and yellow banners. In this story, though, there was no prince-at-large; what wandered was her mind. Still they hoped it might stumble on her bruised and bandaged body. They hoped that, in an instant quick as a kiss, she might be brought back to life. What banners they would fly then!

Yet still she lay, still she lay, a mannequin of herself, amid tubes and machines. Tape crisscrossed her face. On a screen they could watch the routine efforts of her heart. So many times they had wished she would hold her tongue; now all they wanted

was for it to loosen. From time to time, after her breathing tube was removed, someone would see her shape her lips, as if to sigh or speak. But there was no steady progress; they understood from the doctors that this was only waxing and waning. They understood that she could wax and wane for a long time. They watched for the pattern that meant progress.

No pattern. No progress.

The doctors had taped Theresa's eyes closed, lighdy; also they had taped her arms to splints, wrapped her hands around balls of gauze. Still her fingers clamped together, clawlike. Her body curled too; as the weeks turned to months, she shrank into herself like the stiffest of fetuses, shrivelling, her skin sallow and waxy. The doctors grew graver yet. Her chances, they'd say, and shake their heads. Not after this long.