Picture Bride

by C. Fong Hsiung

  I want to scream at him to stop the charade of asking for my opinions.

  “So what are you saying?”

  I shrug. “Let’s get this one. I do like it.”

  “Are you tired of looking?”

  “No, no. I’m not.” After a brief hesitation, I blurt out, “Actually, I am a little tired. We’ve seen so many sofas that they’re all starting to look alike now.”

  “This is a big purchase. I don’t buy without comparing prices.”

  Back home, most of our furniture was built by carpenters who came to our tannery. They drew the required piece on a sheet of paper, measured the space, and then delivered the finished product later. If Mama needed ready-made furniture, like a sofa, she went to the stores and made all the purchases herself. All this shopping is new to me. But I apologize, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying that we shouldn’t shop around.”

  Wing-tipped eyebrows take flight. Oh dear, Peter looks angry. I wish I hadn’t been so hasty about showing my frustration. He signals for the salesman’s attention, wheedles some more, and then they shake hands. He asks, “Do you want to eat something before we leave?”

  Although I am not very hungry, I nod. We head towards the food court where we order hamburgers and soft drinks. Peter slathers his with ketchup and mustard. I take mine with ketchup only. I munch on the hamburger and then halfway, I put it down. My queasy stomach is rebelling.

  “What’s the matter? Are you going to finish that?” Peter eyes my half-finished sandwich.

  “I don’t feel like eating anymore.”

  “Didn’t you know that before we placed the order?”

  “I was fine until I started to eat.”

  “You shouldn’t waste food.” Peter wags an index finger.

  I want to throw the offending hamburger at him, but I apologize again. I remember Mama’s advice to be the peacemaker in this relationship. My fingers pull and twirl at a handkerchief. I look down and note distractedly that it's the same handkerchief I used the day I arrived in Toronto. A thread on the embroidered edge has started to unravel.

  A few days later, in the morning, Peter drives me to our now partially furnished apartment to await the delivery of our sofa set. As he turns to leave, I ask if he would stay with me while we wait.

  “Why can’t you do something on your own for a change?” he says gruffly.

  “I thought it would be nice if we spent some time together. After all, you’re moving in here this weekend and then we will hardly see each other until we get married.”

  I really believe that the tension between us will ease if we get to know each other.

  He takes a step towards the door. “I see you often enough. We will have an entire lifetime together in a few weeks.”

  “Do you need to go somewhere?” I ask.

  “As a matter of fact, I have some errands to run. I’ll come back for you at noon.”

  A feeling of rejection gnaws at me. What do I have to do to earn his friendship, if not his love? I bite my lips and keep my thoughts to myself. If I say something now, we will surely have a row.

  Later, I ask Kathy if something is bothering Peter. Kathy frowns. “Why do you think that?”

  “He seemed angry with me this morning for suggesting we spend more time together.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. That’s just the way Peter is. He’s naturally shy and he’s also got a lot on his mind. After all, he’s getting married soon.”

  “So am I,” I say quietly.

  Kathy holds my hands and gazes into my eyes. “We’re women and we can handle any situation. We were brought up to take care of our husbands.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but then I change my mind. Mama would have given me the same advice.

  ·5·

  I wake up in the dark on my wedding day. The damp air oppresses me like the gloomy rainy sky outside this Saturday morning. I look into the bathroom mirror. Dull brown eyes stare back at me. I brush my teeth vigorously, but a dry chalky taste clings to my mouth.

  Today I will leave Kathy’s house to live with Peter. Something twists in my stomach. I sputter, choking on the water in my mouth, as I quell the surge of panic. Why does my life seem like a runaway train? What would happen if I called the wedding off? I gasp for air. Already the full force of Papa’s wrath clamps me like a vise at the unspoken suggestion. The scandal, the never-ending gossip, the shame. How would I ever raise my head at a familiar face? And what about Mama and Ah-Poh? Their dreams for me would be dashed forever.

  I open the door just in time to see Henry carry Rachel into Eric’s room. Kathy has offered to let me use her dresser when the stylist arrives.

  The doorbell rings as I gather my things and lay them on Kathy’s bed. Mandy and Eva, the stylist, have arrived. Eva starts by putting my hair into hot rollers. Her fingers skillfully massage my face as she applies moisturizer and creams. For an hour or so I let Eva work her magic. At last she steps back and surveys her handiwork.

  “Turn around and look in the mirror,” she says with a satisfied grin.

  Kathy and Mandy, who are waiting for their turn with Eva, crowd around me.

  Mandy whistles. “No wonder Peter picked you.”

  Kathy’s round face breaks into a smile. “I hope Peter realizes what a lucky guy he is.”

  I gaze at the beautiful stranger with blue-shadowed eyes fanned by long mascaraed lashes. My curls cascade in soft waves past my shoulders, and wispy tendrils hang with alluring grace on my cheeks. I reach for the wedding gown, which is draped over the bed. And finally, as Mandy clasps the last button at the nape of my neck, she sighs. “You make a lovely bride.”

  Indeed, I am a lovely picture to decorate Papa’s living room, and a trophy for a husband who still hasn’t warmed up to me, though he has proudly shown me off to all his friends and coworkers.

  Mandy says, “If only your mama could see you in this gorgeous gown.”

  My dress of white silk is trimmed with exquisite lace along the v-shaped neckline, hugging my body and trailing in fluffy white swirls behind me. Mama and I had selected the cloth and lace over the protest of the tailor who said the materials would be too difficult to handle. Still he delivered a dress that has now transformed me into a white swan.

  Although I scoff at some traditions, I ask Henry to place my headpiece—a crown of white silk flowers with a frothy, cloud-like veil—on my head. Papa owes me this ceremonial act, but he cannot give me his blessing in person today. It would have meant a lot to me if he were able to confer this auspicious gift to start my wedded life. Kathy’s sweet-natured husband, Henry, will make do. He grins with embarrassment when his hands hover above my head, holding the headpiece. We take pictures, Kathy and Mandy taking turns with the camera.

  Peter, who has meanwhile moved into our apartment, arrives with Bobby, John, and Steve. They stop talking as Kathy, Mandy, and I make our grand entrance into the living room. Kathy’s brow glows with fine beads of perspiration from her exertions. She just finished chasing her children to dress them. Steve’s eyes light up as they fall on Mandy, elegant in a pale yellow, off-shoulder, ankle-length gown. A few more guests—unknown relatives and some more of Peter’s friends—troop in.

  Now Kathy begins the tea ceremony. While she pours jasmine tea into dainty porcelain cups, the guests take their seats in the living and dining rooms. Unlike our engagement day, this time Peter and I hold the tea tray together. His closeness unnerves me—the porcelain trembles in my hands, but Peter steadies the tray without missing a step.

  A photographer hired for the day clicks away pictures. Hung paos pile as we gather the empty cups from each guest. Kathy clasps a twenty-four-carat gold chain around my neck. Ah-Poh will be beside herself when she shows off these pictures to the neighbours. She loves to brag about us, unlike Mama, who is much more reserved and believes that we s
hould not flaunt our achievements.The two rooms echo with laughter and the clinking of tea-cups and glasses. When Peter and I approach Bobby, our eyes meet, I can't help a shiver. His lips curve, but the smile stops there. He gives a high-pitched laugh and flicks invisible strands of hair from his face. I have yet to figure out why this man doesn’t like me.

  At City Hall, I say, “I do.” And just like that, the Justice of the Peace turns me into a married woman, he pronounces in a grave voice, “You may now kiss the bride.”

  Peter’s lips brush mine. A cheer erupts behind us. Someone boos and says, “You call that a kiss?”

  My face flushes. My first kiss from a man—more like a peck—captured on film.

  Kathy and Henry herd the guests to the door, inviting them to meet us at Edwards Gardens for more pictures. While they disperse toward their cars, John, our chauffeur for the day, drives over in Peter’s Impala. Peter, Mandy, and I climb into the backseat while Bobby joins John at the front. I am crushed in the middle, my long white train draped unceremoniously over our laps.

  A few hours later, after many poses for the camera at the park, where the skies cooperated, not pouring down on us, we drive to Kum Wah Restaurant in China Town. My blistered ankles beg for relief in the white leather pumps now streaked with mud, having squelched over sodden grass all afternoon with a folded tissue inserted behind each ankle—Mandy’s suggestion for easing the pain. Flanked by Bobby and Mandy, Peter and I receive the guests at the restaurant. I don’t know most of them. The hundred or so people are mostly Peter’s friends and relatives. Mama gave me some names of distant relatives to invite to the reception, but they don't seem to be here. There is the noise of incessant chatter, the clatter of dishes, and the sharp clinking of chopsticks on glasses as the guests demand public displays of affection from Peter and me—a few more pecks on the cheeks and sometimes on the lips when the guests insist.

  At last dinner is over. Peter weaves unsteadily to the entrance. All evening he has sipped whisky. When the last guests leave, we gather the wedding gifts and John drives us to our matrimonial home. Our married life begins.

  I quickly shower and slip into a black nylon negligee—Mandy teased me into buying it during a shopping spree. I listen to my rapid heartbeats as I sit on the bed waiting for Peter. Everything I know about the wedding night comes from movies and books. In school, my friends and I giggled when we spoke about the man and woman thing.

  I can hear the television in the next room. I watch the white clock radio on the night table dropping its digits one by one. Twelve-thirty. I lie down. Twelve-forty-five. My eyelids droop.

  With a start, I open my eyes. The lights are on. It takes a few seconds for me to remember where I am. It’s almost two. Silence. Somewhere outside, a dog barks. I slide out of the bed and pad next door in my bare feet.

  A lamp is on and I see Peter asleep on the couch, his head on one armrest and his bridegroom suit jacket draped over his torso. With mixed feelings of reprieve and rejection, I flick the light off and return to the bed.

  ·6·

  A sliver of light peeping through the curtains brushes my face, waking me from a fitful sleep. Peter is not beside me, his side of the bed remains untouched. I lie still for a few more minutes delaying the inevitable meeting. What should I say to him now?

  I creep out of bed and tiptoe to the living room. Seated on the sofa, Peter looks up from his newspaper just as I start to back away. Sometime during the night, he has changed into a T-shirt and shorts.

  With an inscrutable expression he says, “Oh good, you’re up. I could use some breakfast about now.”

  Our eyes meet. I wish I were not wearing this ridiculous negligee. His lips twitch in an amused smile that he doesn’t hide. Then he returns his gaze to the newspaper.

  I stand still. I want to say something, but I choke over the words and make a strangled sound.

  Peter lifts his head, eyebrows arching. “Did you say something?”

  “Er, no, no.” I blush. “It’s nothing. I’ll be back soon to make breakfast.” I dash into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, I return. Peter hasn’t moved. He doesn’t look up. I reach for the frying pan inside the oven and set it on the stove. Every now and then, I steal quick glances at him, expecting him to say something about last night, but the newspaper engrosses him.

  The silence continues as I serve breakfast—eggs with two slices of toast and tea. Peter puts his paper down when I sit across from him.

  “What shall we do today?” I ask.

  “The guys want to play poker this afternoon. We didn’t get to play yesterday.”

  “We got married yesterday.”

  “I know, I was there,” Peter says in a testy tone.

  “Oh.” I sigh. Too late . . . I cannot stifle it back.

  He looks sharply at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I guess I was expecting to do something different for our first day as a married couple.”

  Peter forks some eggs into his mouth. “Okay, let’s get something straight. I’m not the kind of guy who hugs and kisses. My mama wanted me to get married. I agreed. It will be nice to have someone do stuff for me . . . you know, all those things that you women are good at.”

  I take a deep breath to quell the trembling inside me. I steel myself and say as calmly as I can, “So why didn’t you hire a maid instead of getting married?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so offended. You wanted to come to Canada and I was your ticket. Isn’t that true?”

  “I may have hoped to come here one day, but not at any cost. I thought that we would get to know each other and then maybe we could be a couple the way Mandy and Steve are.”

  A vein throbs at his temple. “Listen to me and let’s make something clear. You may be my wife now, but we will never be a real couple, because I’m in love with someone else.”

  I gasp. If he had slapped me, I wouldn’t be more stunned. “Why didn’t you marry her?” I ask. “And why are you telling me this now?”

  “Obviously I can’t, or else I would have done it already.”

  “I can’t stay with you like this.” Tears prick at my eyes, but I will not let him see them.

  “Well, you can’t leave. All I have to do is call the immigration people and they’ll send you back to India.”

  Is that true? Where can I go? Mandy’s apartment upstairs cannot put enough distance between Peter and me. And how would she react to my crashing into their home? I don’t have enough money to live on my own. I can’t go back to Calcutta—not without embarrassing Papa and Mama. Ah-Kung and Ah-Poh would also have to bear the shame of my failed marriage.

  I need some fresh air. The lingering smell of cooking nauseates me. The silence between us stretches like taut wire. Quickly I clear and wash the dishes. I grab my purse from the closet and head for the door. I can’t leave fast enough. Peter shifts his attention from the television when he hears me leaving.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going for a walk.” I assume a nonchalant air, but my voice quivers.

  “Make sure you come back soon. We have to finish lunch before the guys come by this afternoon.”

  I am too angry to respond. One hand clutches my purse as the other grasps the doorknob. The phone rings. I hesitate.

  “The phone’s closer to you. You could pick it up before you leave,” Peter says.

  I step back and reach for the phone on the wall behind me.

  “Jie-Lan, is that you?” It’s Papa.

  “Yes . . . Papa?” His voice floats through the line, hollow but clear. Why is he calling long distance? A foreboding descends upon me.

  “Yes, I’ve been waiting until it is morning in Toronto. Ah-Kung passed away last night.”

  “Oh no.” I grip the phone and a sob escapes. Beloved Ah-Kung, dead—the gentle storyteller
whom all the neighborhood kids loved. With a break in my voice, I tell him, “I wish I could be home right now.”

  “You can’t come home, you just left.”

  I don’t trust myself to speak. Papa asks, “Jie-Lan, are you still there?”

  “Yes. Is Mama with you?”

  “Yes, she is. Here, you talk to her.”

  I hear muffled sounds, then Mama’s voice. My knees knock together and buckle when I hear her call my name. I blink hard a few times. The ache cuts like a sharp knife carving into my gut. I wish she could soothe and comfort me as she did when I was a child.

  “Tell me about your wedding,” Mama says.

  “Everything went well.” I force some brightness into my voice.

  “You don’t sound like yourself. Are you alright?”

  “Of course, I’m fine—just a bit homesick.”

  “You’ll get over it soon. Peter’s parents gave a grand banquet. Over two hundred guests came.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Your in-laws are very pleased to have you for their daughter-in-law.”

  “I’m glad they like me.”

  “Mrs Chou told me that Peter was very picky about who to marry. She showed him pictures of many other girls, and he selected you. You are a lucky girl.”

  My breath catches. I want to scream. What if she heard me cry? She would probably think it normal for a newly-wed to weep—they all do in Tangra. As a child I watched many young brides bid teary goodbyes to their mothers after the wedding banquets. I never understood why they cried on such a happy occasion. They knew something that I didn’t.

  She says in a soothing voice, “I know everything is strange right now. You should start to focus on having a baby. Your mother-in-law is looking forward to holding her first Chou grandson.”

  I laugh hysterically, but Mama continues to talk. Despite her apparent insensitivity to my crisis, I love my mama. The fact that she does not sense my misery is irrelevant because the sound of her voice comforts me. I need something familiar in this new country to stop me from falling into despair in the horrible situation that I find myself in.