Typical American (8 page)

Nothing he didn't realize himself. This was, consequently, his fourth trip to the kitchen in an hour. The first trip he had tasted the soup; the second, he had asked Helen to make him a cup of tea; the last, he had had more soup. "Needs salt," he had said then. To this she'd answered affectionately, as she tasted it herself, "What do you know?" She'd called him a fan tong, just

what his father used to say. Of course, she was teasing. She wasn't a big teaser, but sometimes she did tease, and then she called it "ribbing." An odd word; sometimes he wondered whether she kept words like that among the other secrets of her drawers. Anyway, this time she had her chin stuck out over the sink in case she dripped as she ribbed, and when he'd tickled her Adam's apple, she'd laughed, which gladdened him.

But now, as he stood in the doorway again, homing to her presence, he thought he saw her shoulders rise with apprehension, her elbows draw in. "No more, no more," she said without turning around, or at least that's what he thought she said; and when he came in anyway, she said, "More soup?"

He shook his head and simply stood, wanting to tickle her Adam's apple again but not knowing how to get to that. There was a way, he knew, but he knew it the way he knew that boat captains could navigate by the stars. He gazed up at the fluorescent circle blinking overhead. Unfathomable. "Sure," he said, after a moment. "Soup."

She ladled him some.

"Needs salt." He smiled.

But this time she didn't call him a fan tong. Instead she said okay, in English, patiently, and reached for the salt shaker. She was going to add salt. What wasn't proper? Still, as he watched her salt with one hand, scratch the side of her nose with the other, he felt himself to be, not the head of the family, a scholar, but a child on a high wooden stool, helpless, bright air all around him. He heard a patient voice. Your father will beat me too.

The room resounded with patience.

"Not right."

"Not right?"

He heard himself talking. "Your breathing."

Their marriage so young, yet already it was easier to say what they'd said before. "Show me again" she said. No tilt of her head. He demonstrated. She imitated him perfectly, chopping carrots.

"What's so interesting about those carrots?"

"Not right?" Still chopping.

"You didn't even look."

She watched.

"Good" he said then. "I want you to breathe that way all the time"

She agreed. But ten minutes later, he caught her holding her breath again.

"You were listening?" asked Helen. "From around the corner?"

He nodded, barely.

'7s there something wrong?"

"You hide things" he said.

"Hide what?"

"Everything. There are things you don't tell me."

She scraped a ragged peel off a turnip.

"Say something. I want you to say something."

She thought. "Would you like some soup?"

"No."

"Would you like some tea?"

"No."

"Would you like some — "

"No!" he yelled, and left.

What kind of love was theirs, that it brought strife instead of peace? They fought again a few days later, and then again the next week, and then again and again, until they were practiced at it — until it had become the kernel of their married life, the form of intimacy they knew best. Sad refinements: Ralph knocked at Helen's skull. "Nothing to say? Anybody there? Come on, open up." Knocking made Ralph feel fierce, but it made Helen go blank — which made him knock more, and command her to breathe, and accuse her of holding her breath on purpose (which she wasn't, really, she wasn't, she wasn't) until she ran away into another room. Sometimes she would blockade

the door; he would bang and bang, unable to stop himself. He had never dreamed a person could be so powerless in his power. But there he'd be, yelling, "I'm the father of this family! Do you hear me? The father, not the son!" She would start crying. Then usually he would back off, apologetic and tender. These were some of the most passionate moments of their lives together, the most searingly entwined. How central Helen felt then, how naturally indispensable!

As opposed to the hours and hours she seemed to stand outside of something deeper than mere marriage. Was it natural or unnatural? Helen didn't know, and tried not to be jealous, but she couldn't help but notice how Ralph hung on to Theresa's every word these days, even if what she had to say didn't particularly interest him. "We're wrong to say typical American," for example. That was a new theme with Theresa. Over and over she explained that Pete was just a person, like them, that Boyboy was just a dog. "Really?" Ralph had no idea what she meant, but he listened as though trying to discover his essential human worth. He cocked his head. He beetled his brow. Once he even cleaned out his ears with his pinkies, as if what stood between him and some more vital, degree-holding self was wax.

What could Helen do but place her hopes in time?

"You went up the trap door*" Ralph said.

"It was nothing, really. You should try it" she said, nonchalant, though in one way, she was taken aback too. How much, how fast she was changing! There was at least that much to be happy about, she supposed. The same girl who had never so much as drawn her own bath was now sprouting mung beans in jars with holes punched in their screw lids. It was as if, once she'd resigned herself to her new world, something had taken her over — a drive to make it hers. She made her own Chinese pancakes now. She made her own red bean paste, boiling and mashing and frying the beans, then using them to fill buns, which she made also. She made curtains; she made bedspreads; she rewired Ralph's old lamp. She couldn't help but feel proud. Too proud, really — she tried to bind that feeling up — recognizing still, though, that in her own way she was becoming private strength itself. She was the hidden double stitching that kept armholes from tearing out. And all because she'd discovered, by herself, a secret — that working was enjoyable. Effort, result. Twist, the cap comes off. Water, the plant grows. Having never done things before, she was entranced by these small satisfactions; she was astounded when, pausing at the sink, a door of sun opening and shutting on her wrist, she realized — yes. Just now, waiting for her bucket to fill, she felt strong. Just this moment, plotting how not to leave footprints on her clean floor, she was at peace.

Of course, it was still important that her hands be too delicate to wield the mop, or the rust-spotted butcher's cleaver. Once, in an effusion of sympathy, a strange American woman had squeezed Helen's hand (typical American no-manners); the American had wondered then at how soft and smooth Helen's skin was. "Really?" said Helen. But actually, she knew it. She knew how tiny she was too, how unmuscled in the arms; she appreciated, as if in a mirror, that she was amazing. And that mattered, the way it mattered that she be busy but not busy at the same time — that, while competent, she be a Chinese

girl. Theresa's work might be her life. One part of Helen, though, still lounged in her pink-piped pajamas, under a shimmering silk comforter, clapping while her brother performed magic tricks. Scarves out of his shoe! And how did he know she was holding the ace? Later he had showed her how it all worked, the secret marks and folds, the way he distracted her eye. Standard stuff, he shrugged, in his brotherly way. He flared his nostrils at her, a sign of affection. Anybody could do it.

Now there was no one to show her anything anymore; the tricks, in her dimming memory, glowed with magic again, like an old mirror resilvered by candlelight. After work, though, still came what she thought of as "doing nothing," a proper Shanghainese-girl activity. Without Theresa and Ralph knowing, she spent large parts of her afternoons listening to the radio, or reading the magazines she kept under her mattress. She loved the advertisements especially, so gorgeously puzzling. Which part of the picture was the "velvet"? Which the "portrait neckline"? Also she liked the insights into American home life — the revelation that most Americans showered every day, first thing in the morning, for example. (This amazed Helen, who took occasional baths, in the evening.) Sometimes she talked on the phone to friends from the English language school. Juliet Shon and Pauline Hu, every now and then. More often, Janis Chao. These were the hours in which she sang a litde; breathed however she wanted; and simply kept quiet — more important now than ever, as she had a hunch she might be pregnant. It was only a tingling in her breasts so far, an odd pressure that might almost be a mood; still, if her mother were here, Helen knew, she'd be telling her at every minute to man man zou — go slow, take care. A calm mother, she'd be saying, makes for a calm and happy child.

Who could take it easy with Ralph home, though? He was elated when she told him the news, but for the most part slept on the couch like an oversized roll pillow. Everything he took badly.

One day Theresa heard that the super's dog had been sent to the veterinarian, something serious. Then, the next day, more — Pete had had Boyboy put to sleep. "Cancer," Theresa said.

"Asleep?" Ralph said. So much fun he'd made of the dog; still, now he turned mournful. "Boyboy? A dog can get cancer?"

There was nothing anyone could do, explained Theresa.

Ting bu jian — Ralph did not hear her. "You're glad," he accused, as though, bearing the news, Theresa had something to do with it.

"I am not glad" she said.

Not too long after that, she came upstairs waving a letter. It was only a state school, but she'd gotten money too, a scholarship.

"You are glad" insisted Ralph. He moved from the couch to his bed.

Now the radiators clanked extra-loud, several times — so loud, they woke Ralph up. Something the matter?

"Nothing" Helen answered.

That was wrong. At first it wasn't noticeable. Then, by morning, it was.

"It's cold in here" said Ralph.

When Helen and Theresa went down to Pete's office to complain, they found it deserted, and his desk tipped over. Several of its drawers were gone; gray and pink gum wads barnacled the underside of the kneehole. The office window had been smashed.

Theresa shook her head. "Who knows what happened" She righted the desk.

"Left?" said Ralph, upstairs. "Fete? No heat?"

It wasn't so bad. They put on extra sweaters, feeling hardy. Typical American unreliable! They agreed Pete would come back. Or else the owner would come. For the rent, they agreed. That was in two weeks. If they knew the owner, they would call him, but they didn't. They asked around. Did anyone know him? But the only person anyone knew was Pete.

Day three. Ralph opened the windows. It was colder inside than out, he maintained. The curtains, usually limp, furled and billowed, magnificent with life.

"The rain's coming in," observed Theresa.

"How stupid of me not to have noticed," said Ralph.

Day four. Still no super, still no owner. Ralph doubled up his blankets and slept to one side of the bed.

Helen pulled Theresa into the hall closet. "What should we do?"

Theresa blinked in the green darkness. What are we doing here among the hangers? she wanted to know; but instead, responded carefully — "Whatever we can" — and when Helen didn't say what that was, thought hard. Her relationship with Helen had always depended on silence. Restraint. Only now did she appreciate how much it depended on sight as well. How else, after all, to know how to read those silences? For instance, this one, now, coalescing in the air like a queer humidity. She considered, trying to ignore the jangling hangers, with their cold, quick touch. Then, experimentally, she said, "You know, I've been thinking of getting married"

"Really!" said Helen. Her voice burst with surprise. All the same, it was a response; Theresa sensed herself on the right track.

"Do you think that will make a difference?"

Helen couldn't help but agree.

Later, though, Helen clopped down to the basement in wonder. All she'd wanted had been for them to throw up their hands together. At Ralph; at the cold; at the rain. It had been a feeling she'd been after, a convivial solidarity; she'd hoped to murmur to one another, as if sitting at the edge of one of their beds. But instead look what had happened. She gripped her flashlight tightly, fitting her fingers to its ribs, though in fact she didn't need it at all. The basement, it turned out, had a light switch. And what lights! A paradise of bulbs. Flames and rods and tubes and circles, not to say ordinary bulbous bulbs of every size and wattage and color, dangled like fruit from an ecstatic entangle-

ment of wire vines. Helen was transfixed. There were no shadows in the room. She blinked. What else didn't they know about Pete? Had they in fact known anything at all? And how warm it was here! She could feel the heat of the lights on her face as she continued down. She unbuttoned her coat a little, squinting. Her eyes watered. She shaded them with her hand, turned, glanced back up. Was there a way to shut some of the lights off?

Just the one switch.

Down some more. The wooden steps were bouncy, with a loose railing to one side. Careful, the baby. A few steps more. She was relieved to feel the hard concrete floor through her slippers. The boiler was straight ahead, a giant, white, curvaceous beast, with a rough asbestos hide. She circled it, feeling as though she were in a movie. A what — a Western. She tried to focus. Gauges, with spindly needles all at zero. And, on the beast's belly, a door. Bold, she unlatched it. Leapt back. No flames. She leaned in a little, careful. Nothing, just a cavernous bowl. Dark. She clanked the door shut, circled again, more surely this time. On top of the furnace, a pile of paper plates, some with scallop-edged pizza crusts. And attached to a pipe with a bit of shoelace tied to a piece of wire tied to a length of string — a grimy, coffee-splashed booklet, its edges soft with age. In English, naturally: owner's information manual — series zoo

OIL BOILERS — RETAIN THESE INSTRUCTIONS FOR FUTURE REFERENCE.

She read.

Ralph was dreaming hard. He wanted to sit up, but could not sit up. He wanted to move, but could not move. It was as if the gravitational pull of the earth had been multiplied; or as if he lay on the bottom of the ocean, all the massive waves weighing on him. He kicked off his covers. Too warm. Back to sleep. Then, awake. Warm? "Is the heat back on?"