Paper Teeth

by Lauralyn Chow

  Ha. So I am right. My eyes burn holes in the back of the driver’s seat. What kind of people would bury a non-Chinese-speaking Canadian child in the Chinese graveyard?

  Auntie Moe sits as far away from Mumma as she can in the front seat. We’re driving her home to Grandpa’s. Auntie Moe works at Village Books on Thursday and Friday nights and all day Saturday. She takes the bus there and back. Whenever I’m out with Mumma and Dad at night and see those buses riding around, all lit up inside with one or two passengers sitting by themselves, I think of Auntie Moe.

  I have no idea why she moved to Grandpa’s when Uncle Louie died. Well, he’s her father and everything, but he’s such a grump. He looks exactly like the porcelain Buddha doll Dad’s cousins in Saskatoon prop in front of their fireplace. He’s got the round, round bald head, little square white teeth with brown edges, and the jiggly fat of an enormous gut and floppy breasts. In the summer, when Grandpa wears just undershirts, you can even see those little dots around his nipples, just like the Buddha doll’s. But that Buddha doll sits there with these children climbing all over him, and I don’t know any kid who’d come near Grandpa. And not just because his breath would knock a cow over. You don’t have to spend much time with him to realize he is just plain mean. He doesn’t know much English, but what he knows is pick-pick-pick. You’ll be over visiting, having a chat with Auntie Moe, and he’ll be talking with your Dad, and all of a sudden, he’ll interrupt you to say, “Aiya. Childen. Be Seeing. Not Hearing.” If he were that Buddha doll, he’d be swatting those kids away like flies. But one thing about Grandpa. At least his daughters can speak Chinese. They’re all set. It feels like someone is dragging a teabag soaked in vinegar across the bottom of my stomach.

  “You’re quiet today, Little One.” Auntie Moe turns and smiles at me from the front seat of the car. If a storybook mother who likes kids came to live in your life, she would be my Auntie Moe. “What are you thinking?”

  “Mmmm. Nothing.”

  I wish I said, something. Auntie Moe shrugs her shoulders and turns around again.

  “Well, what are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “Nothing too.”

  “Next month, maybe Auntie Moe will have time to go out for tea,” I hear from the back of Mumma’s head.

  “I don’t think we need to do this any more,” Auntie Moe says, looking straight ahead.

  “Well, we’ll keep an eye on the weather,” Mumma says.

  “No.” I lean forward, I can hardly hear Auntie Moe. “I mean any more.”

  “Oh?” Mumma has that bug-eyed tone that means she’s not really asking.

  “Brian says this just prolongs the mourning period —”

  “Who’s Brian?” I ask, perching my chin over the seat edge.

  “— I told him, three years, mourning isn’t what it’s about. But he has a point.”

  “Maybe,” Mumma says, “maybe Brian doesn’t understand Duty. Or loyalties.”

  “Who’s Brian?”

  “I explained all that to him, but Brian says it sounds like I’m doing this more for Dad,” Auntie Moe turns her face toward Mumma, “and you, Mary.”

  “Oh. Well. You tell Brian, you don’t owe me anything. All this time, I thought hey, just helping you. But if you don’t want to do this anymore, you tell Brian I’m not going to drag you to the cemetery each month, kicking and screaming. I don’t need to help you and then have you tell me you’re the one doing me a favour.”

  “Who is Brian?”

  (one-two-three-) The front seat goes Chinese. Like the film at school on the UN Assembly, your translation headset cuts out. And then all you hear is Chinese.

  This happens all the time at the juicy bits. I watch, like a tennis match, with my eyes following the ball of words being slugged back and forth between Auntie Moe and Mumma. I think Chinese people sometimes sound like they’re arguing, but I don’t need a translator to know this is the real thing.

  I listen in case one word, one syllable will turn sideways for a second, reveal its insides, and meaning to me. But they talk so fast, the words pour out like jelly beans from a jar. “Brian” peppered through the Chinese. I listen harder. Wait.

  My head hurts. They could be talking about space travel, Astronaut Brian, and freeze-dried food in foil packets. And, if I don’t learn Chinese, my heaven will become this — watching tennis matches of people talking back and forth to each other, endless buckets of balls made of words I don’t understand. That’ll be me, Janie Lee, heaven’s permanent spectator who has Nothing to Say and No One Talking to Her. Worse. I’ll starve. I don’t even know how to ask how to find the bathroom. I wonder if I’ll have to go in heaven.

  Already in front of Grandpa’s house. We usually stop and visit, but Mumma squeezes the life out of what Dad calls the 10 and 2 of the steering wheel, and the car engine rumbles.

  “I’ll call you,” Auntie Moe says, “See ya.”

  “Mmm.”

  “See ya, Auntie Moe.”

  Mumma takes off without letting me come up to the front. The whole ride home she doesn’t speak Chinese or English. I pretend to point and say, “I don’t care for that, and I don’t care for that, nor that either. None of it,” I silently conclude, my hand pretending to sweep the air clear, “Please take it all away.” I am a lady of leisure being driven home by her cranky chauffeur.

  “How was school today?”

  “There wasn’t any school. We went to the cemetery.”

  At dinner tonight, you can hear the knives and forks click clack against the plates. Three of us sit in the kitchen. Everyone else is at Boy Scouts, or drama club, or a late class. While Mumma made supper, I went downstairs to the den and took down these old paperbacks of Dad’s with all Chinese writing. They sat in the den in the little gold metal bookcase. I tried to figure out the squiggly characters, looking for patterns, repeated figures. Maybe if I broke the code, those squiggles and lines could move on the page, form letters spelling words with the English alphabet.

  “What have you got there?”

  I didn’t know Dad had already come home. When I looked up, end-of-the-day light shone through the basement windows. And my legs felt cold on the floor where I sat, my fingers running lines over the writing.

  “Just some old books.”

  “Anything interesting?” He put his chin over my shoulder.

  “Not really.”

  “Might be more interesting if you start at the beginning of the book, not the end.” He moved the pages from under my fingers.

  “Oh?”

  “And each page,” he said, running his fingers to the bottom of the page, “you read the rows top to bottom, right to left.”

  “Oh.”

  Mumma dabs the napkin at the corners of her mouth, signal-ling me to clear the table.

  “Yes,” she says, “we went to the cemetery today.” The Chinese starts again. Even sounds like the same conversation, like a needle on a sewing machine madly piercing the fabric, “de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-Brian-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-Brian-de-de-de.”

  Dad massages his jaw with his left hand. He talks. A question? I stand between them, my hands curved around the plates stacked at the table. The tennis ball of words flips back and forth, over me, I first think, like a net. Then, through me. I frown at this sample of bad heaven.

  “de-de-de-de.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de.”

  “Who’s Brian?”

  “de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de —”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “de-de-de-de-de-de —”

  “I said. What are you talking about?”

  “Clear the dishes.”

  “You heard Mumma. Clear the dishes.”

  “Will you at least answer my question? Who is Brian?”

  “Young lady!”

  “You always talk Chinese. You know I don’t understand —”

  “Hold your horses, Janie —”

  “Y
ou talk right in front of me. That’s rude.”

  “Go to your room.” Mumma points down the hall.

  I had this terrible dream last night. Four old Chinese men I never met, playing mah jong in a kitchen I never saw before. The one facing me didn’t say a word, but I knew it was Wee Lee, bugging his eyes at me. They sat around a card table, shirt sleeves rolled up, mah jong tiles arranged in long rows piled two high in front of each person. The right-hand end of each row of mah jong tiles butted up against the mid-point of the row of tiles to each player’s right, the four rows forming a smaller square of mah jong tiles with pinwheel ends. The men smoked cigarettes, but I only smelled incense burning. Each man had a small glass of whisky set on the table in front of him, and when Wee Lee pointed at me with his chin, the other three all turned. Speaking in Chinese (the good part of the dream was that I could understand Chinese), Wee Lee pointed his finger at my face, and whined loudly, “She doesn’t know any Chinese.” The other three gave me the hairy eyeball. One of the men closest to me pushed his chair back from the table, stood up. “Shame!” he cried, shaking a handful of thin white papers at me. Then the rest stood up and joined him, yelling in Chinese, “You don’t belong here! Shame, shame! Get out!” I started to run, and they jumped up, scattering their chairs. They began to chase me, throwing little oranges at my head. An orange hit me in the head, I tripped, and kept falling. I screamed. Out loud, I think. My eyes opened. My hair felt hot and stuck on, like a rubber bathing cap. I had a droolly pillow and crusts in my eyes. Sweaty under my jeans and long-sleeved tee shirt. The whole house had gone to bed. Quiet. And dark. No one came to check on me, for a pulse, or anything. I got up and changed in the dark.

  All day long, I have ridden in the back seat, not saying a word. Everyone else has swimming, piano lessons, homework. The people in the front seat have finished all their Saturday driving errands. What I don’t get is when you are a grown-up and can finally do whatever you want, how do you end up doing so much boring stuff all day long? That won’t be me, ever. They make a point of speaking English all day, turning their heads toward the back seat as if to include me. I’m no fool. What they’re talking about isn’t important. And I haven’t been listening. The car stops at Pinder’s house. Mumma went to school with Barbara Pinder, who still lives at home, taking care of her mother. Just the two of them, mother and daughter. My shoulders quiver and the shaking travels right down my back. The Pinders live about three blocks from Village Books, where Auntie Moe works today.

  I slam the car door shut. “I’m going to the bookstore,” I say.

  “Janie, where are you going?” Mumma asks. She doesn’t even listen.

  “Let her go,” Dad says. “Call us at the Pinder’s and we’ll come get you. Jane?”

  “Mmm.”

  Auntie Moe works at the counter, helping a customer. He has his back to me, and he leans over so she doesn’t see me come in. There’s no one else in the store. I’m not to bother her while she’s working, so I browse a shelf of books off to one side. She still doesn’t see me.

  Is she arm wrestling? They both have their elbows on the counter and their fingers make a big ball fist. But, Auntie Moe makes a pretty puny arm wrestler. He could easily win, and yet they’re just, I don’t know, checking out each other’s nostrils or something. Wait. He wraps his other hand around and lifts their ball fist to his face. Don’t tell me they’re making goo-goo eyes. Hey. He kisses her knuckles. Each one separately. Gross. And better than television. She smiles and turns her head toward me.

  The way Auntie Moe’s head and my head both move back, you can tell we’re related. She undoes her hand from the ball. I don’t know what to do. Or say. She waves me over. He turns to face me. He’s very tall.

  “Jane, this is my friend, Brian. Brian, this is my favourite eight-year-old niece, Jane.”

  “Your only eight-year-old niece,” I correct.

  “But, still my favourite.” Our routine.

  His camel’s hair coat goes on forever. But he has soft grey-brown eyebrows and long eyelashes like a pony. His smile crinkles his eyes. The point of his nose matches the points of his shoes matches the blunt tips of his outstretched fingers. The ones that were so close to his lips.

  He has warm hands.

  “What’s up, Little One?” Auntie Moe asks. She looks so pinky clear.

  “I need to talk to you,” I whisper.

  I like Brian. Without asking, he wanders off to the shelves.

  “Why so glum, chum?”

  Auntie Moe crosses her arms on the counter and her head tilts in a paying attention way. She should be a mother.

  “Auntie Moe, I need to learn Chinese.”

  “Oh. Right away?”

  “Well, I think that would be best. You never know when you’ll need it.”

  “It’s not so easy, you know. What do you need to learn first?”

  “Well, like, ‘Where is the bathroom?’ and ‘Do you have chicken sandwiches?’ and ‘Go away. I don’t know.’ Like that.”

  “Come with me,” she says. We walk by Brian to a bookcase with a sign that says Travel. Auntie Moe picks a book off the lowest shelf, and hands it to me, Berlitz Chinese for Travellers: A 40-Page Guide.

  “You’re lucky,” she says, “Not many of these around.”

  The book cover shines in my hands. The cream-coloured pages feel thick between my fingers. There’s a column of phrases in English, and then another column, English letters spelling Chinese words. I try one out as we walk slowly back to the counter.

  “Joh Sun.”

  “Good morning to you too,” Auntie Moe gently tugs a piece of hair by my bangs, “but you’re about eight hours late —”

  “I knew that,” I shout, “Yes, good morning. I knew that.”

  Then Auntie Moe reaches under the counter and takes her wallet out. “Don’t worry,” she says, punching the till buttons, “your early Christmas present.” She flips the clip down on the dollar bills and fishes some coins out of the little compartments.

  The three of us ride in Brian’s car. Dad said OK. First, we’ll go out for spaghetti and then play it by ear, Auntie Moe says. I sit in the back seat. The car has leather upholstery that smells like forever. They reach across the front seat and hold hands.

  “Or, we could go get doughnuts,” Auntie Moe says.

  “Or, we could go bowling,” Brian says.

  “Or, we could drive out to the Stardust Drive-in, park off the road, and make up the dialogue for the actors on the screen.”

  Every idea sounds better than the last one. I fold the paper bag carefully around my book, and hold on with both hands. As Auntie Moe and Brian make plans, all of a sudden I start thinking about Uncle Louie. What would it be like, you tell everyone in heaven that you’re waiting for someone, “Yup, she’s coming,” you say, but no one ever shows up. I mean, you’re there for eternity, and all your heaven friends know you’re waiting, and you know everyone knows you’re waiting, duh, because you were the one who told them. But no one ever comes. How can Uncle Louie stand waiting for eternity like that? That’s what I want to know.

  Number 183. Seafood-Steam Whitefish with Scallion Chop

  Vee’s eyes revel in the silver of the mirror, awe-struck by Vee’s reflection. The world could be mapped from the precision of her lips, the true north of the identical twin peaks drawn at the centre of her Pink Frost lips. Round light bulbs necklace the oval mirror on the new, white vanity. Pink light catches flecks of airborne sparkle from Vee herself. You could argue (but not with Vee) that the true source of this dust may be Vee’s powder puff and engraved sterling compact.

  Kohl eyeliner traces her almond-shaped eyes, the nut-shaped stencil borrowed from Vee by Elizabeth Taylor in the movie, Cleopatra. Vee gloriaswansons her eyes, combs her right, then left Kissmequick eyelashes, a doll-sized toothbrush held between the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Two rows of lashes stand at attention. On the mark. Blink. Hello, Chatelaine of Contemporary Style.

  Vee grind
s her slipper heels against the hardwood and pushes back, the wheels on her round tufted stool rolling hard against the veneer of the floor. Delighted to see more of her body materializing in the mirror, Vee concentrates on her mirror image as she crosses her legs, right over left, and wrists, left over right, manicured fingertips resting tentatively on top of her right thigh. She gently pats her hairline around her forehead, before re-posing her hands on her thigh. Orange sherbet pedal pushers cut just below her calves, matching her sleeveless pop top. Invisible zippers in the side seams of both garments flatter her you-can-crack-an-egg-on-my-ass figure. A gold slipper with a courtier heel swings from the ball of her foot, pivoting a slender ankle. A band of gold and white holds a long, thick ponytail in place at the top of her head. Vee twirls her head in the style of Nancy Kwan, her neck snapping smartly just behind her right ear, the ponytail a black lasso circling her shoulders.

  Nancy Kwan, singer, dancer, actress. All-American. Movie star. Nancy Kwan, in the movie Flower Drum Song, telling the world, singing, that “She Flips when a fella brings her flowers.” That “She is strictly a female female.” That “She Enjoys being a Girl.” Flower Drum Song, those real life alluring characters, speaking directly to glamourous Vee. Oriental men wearing fedoras and talking fast, regular so-handsome-they-make-your-bits-quiver guys. Snapping their fingers. Cool movie star Chinese guys. And not just one or two guys. OhNo. Chorus lines of adagio dancing, singing, strutting, HelloGorgeous, guys. Living every day life in real time. Today. Wearing their handsome hearts on the sleeves of really well-cut suits. The leading men? Bedroom Eyes? Please. Just Like Michael Caine. Almond-shaped Michael Caine Bedroom Eyes. Regular matinee idols. No fat thugs. No skinny-rat-greaseball gangsters. None of that Charlie Chan narrow-eyed ohhh velly interesting ah so — asshole Oriental stuff. Nope. None of that, thank you. Just your run of the mill good-looking Oriental men. Oh, yes please. Real guys you can actually picture between you and the ceiling. Vee crosses her arms, her shoulders shrug, finger tips stroke the sides of her breasts.