This cement square is a popular spot to consider what you’re giving up—your little girl? Your vows? Your home?
Just like Gone Mom, Evangeline made an appointment with the future that did not include the ropes and roots of the past.
Chapter 15
Elliot James paces the art room, combing his hair with his fingers. He glances over when I come in. We both know my detentions are over now, that I only come here to look at the Picasso poster and talk with Mr. Howard.
Whatever his upsetness is about, it is very dramatic and includes huffing and clenched fists. I hope he doesn’t plan to cut off his ear.
Out of my mouth pops this question: “What’s bothering you?” He just stands there silent, supertall with no pencil or paintbrush, no handful of clay. “Well, okay. Why don’t you draw what’s bothering you?” I say. I like the idea, but I hate how I sound. I have a let’s-get-this-over-with tone that’s just like my mother.
Elliot shakes his head. I know, I know. Everything I say is stupid, Elliot. He bumps the door open, heads out to the track, and runs. If I drew him he’d be a sprinting, tongue-tied stick figure with floppy hair. Drawing him would not help me understand him one bit better—one minute he’s calling me stupid and the next he’s drawing my portrait.
Mr. Howard comes in. He nods to me and once again rearranges the still life. “If kids have trouble drawing that thing I know why. It’s boring as hell,” he says. “Plus, life doesn’t stay still.” In his peripheral vision he catches Elliot running, gives me a puzzled look.
“I have no idea what’s going on. It might not surprise you to know that he didn’t tell me.”
“He’s not big on small talk. He either talks big or nothing. He could use a bit of coaching in repartee, but the two of us have tiptoed into some interesting subject matter lately.” Mr. Howard smiles, then turns to the Picasso poster. “How’s our girl with the mirror?”
“Busy,” I say, “trying to figure out who’s staring back. Is it herself in the future, maybe, or her past or what?”
Mr. Howard studies the poster, his hands stacked on his broom handle. “Look there.” He points. “She’s not just looking, she’s holding that mirror.”
I squint. I’d missed it before, but Mr. Howard’s right. The girl has both arms raised, hands gripping the frame. “So you think she’s reaching out for her mother, maybe?”
He gives me a wide-eyed look, shakes his head. “Maybe. I knew mine, but I wouldn’t know my father if he spit in my face. I can’t be ashamed of it. I had nothing to do with it.”
A nervous hum starts in me that turns into these words. “M . . . m . . . my parents were Chinese. I remember my mother, but not my birth father. He’s a phantom.”
“Phantom,” Mr. Howard says. “Phan Tom. Sounds kinda Chinese, doesn’t it?”
I smile. “Yeah, I guess. But Phan Tom was rotten no matter what I call him. He could have been a crook or a bum or the emperor of China or . . .”
“You ever try to locate him?”
“Never.”
“You think he might be deceased?” Mr. Howard says softly.
“He is to me.”
“We’re alike then. We will never know the blood men who made us. Trying to be who you are, when you don’t know who you are, is a hard go,” he adds. “But I do know some nice Chinese folks. I work for them evenings at the House of Chow.”
Air forms a boulder in my throat. I glance out at Elliot starting his second round of the track. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Chow?”
“I work there weekend nights. I love Chinese food! Don’t you?”
“Well, I have eaten one-fourth of a fortune cookie, and I’ve had hot tea, which is Chinese, or maybe it’s Japanese . . . and then, uh . . .” I have the worldly intelligence of a wart.
“The Chows live with prejudice every day,” Mr. Howard says. “They turned it into energy. They turned their Chinese heritage into a business. For Chinese New Year they serve long noodles for a long life and dumplings that look like little money pockets with pennies hidden inside for prosperity.” He shakes his head and smiles. “And of course there are the fresh dragon eggs.” Mr. Howard squats. “The mother dragon sits right on ’em in her nest in the kitchen. Tricky business collecting those eggs.” He goes back to sweeping the spot he just finished cleaning.
I think how my mother can turn any conversation into a ball of barbed wire and how Mr. Howard turns a loaded, tense topic like our birth fathers into fun. We watch Elliot circling the track. “He told me I was stupid for walking out of class that day, you know, when I got the detention. But you saluted me!”
Mr. Howard smiles, rubs his chin. “Yup. But I’m not so sure Elliot was calling you stupid, Miss Firestone. Maybe he was referring to the class.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Mr. Howard says. “It’s real easy to start imagining things in other people.”
“But.”
“No. Hear me out. I know you weren’t imagining what happened in class. I saw it! I’m just saying that it is easy to make assumptions that everybody is against you when maybe they’re not. But prejudice you internalize, turn against yourself, is the worst. It can get you so sunk inside you’re unwilling to take a risk. Leaves you kinda”—he shrugs—“cold acting toward other people.”
“Unwilling to take what risk?”
“Caring about somebody else and letting it show. Feeling like you have something worth giving.”
We are quiet a long moment. “What do you tell your kids? Don’t they get, you know, bothered by people who . . .”
“I hope they learn by watching my wife and me.” He turns. I see the exact moment it dawns on him that I don’t have an example. All I feel is the weight of Donald Firestone on one shoulder and Vivian Firestone hooked to the other.
Elliot barges in the door steamy and panting. He waves to Mr. Howard. “Hey! How you doing?”
“Hungry. We’re talking Chinese food. Chopsticks. Eel. That sort of thing. Lily says she likes her dragon eggs scrambled with a side of soy sauce.”
“Me too,” Elliot says. The track has absorbed all his angst or headache or diaper rash or whatever put him on edge.
“When you go to the House of Chow, Miss Firestone, check out the friendly Chinese fish and try the dim sum,” Mr. Howard says. “Lights you up on the inside.”
“I sure will,” I mumble. My lips feel stuck to my teeth.
With Elliot’s agitation problem over and the fact that Mr. Howard and I have ceased discussing how prejudice can make a person disown herself, we move on to the fact that Chinese people never eat alone, but always in groups, family groups, around a lazy Susan with all the trimmings. They do not sit alone chasing Cheerios around a bowl of chocolate milk like Ralph does. They share wontons and dim sum—whatever that is—and turn their families into a circle of lighted lanterns.
This is not talk of the bloody Red Peril. This is about good luck and chopping cabbage and families and tanks of friendly, non-Communist fish and their nice owners.
For the first time being Chinese does not sound like a crime against humanity.
* * *
It’s Saturday. I review my plans on the bus. I will enter the gift shop and purchase a fan or chopsticks and look for a wrist rest and a Martian slipper like mine. I will walk out if I start to panic. Why would I panic in the House of Chow? If Mrs. Chow is Gone Mom, if my father comes in, if anybody recognizes me, if someone asks about my past, if I start crying, if I am forced to eat eel.
I am coming here because I am not a stuffed animal. I am a human with research to do. Mr. Howard and Ralph and everybody else flies in and out of the House of Chow free as pigeons. Why not me? I want to meet Asian fish. And if Mother finds out I came, I will say that the Future Homemakers of America are learning the art of fortune-cookie baking without singeing the fortune.
It’s three thirty, an off time, restaurant-wise. I enter the reception area. Straight ahead is a huge, empty red-and-black dining
room. The sharp scent of ginger and scallions shoots me right back to Chinatown. I am perched on Gone Mom’s bent arm by a food cart with hubbub all around.
I sink down on a seat by the cash register, hold my little-girl self, wipe my cheeks.
Paper lanterns with gold tassels hang from the light fixtures. Panels carved with flowers and birds divide the booths from the round tables. The aquarium hums and bubbles, casting watery light across the reception area. Water sliding over stone dragons in a fountain enhances the carving and accents the details of Abraham Lincoln’s copper profile on the pennies tossed in the lighted pool below.
All of China seems packed in here. I walk into the gift shop and step right on Mrs. Chow seated cross-legged on the floor unpacking a carton.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” Oh, God. Oh, God.
I grab her arm as she struggles to stand up. “Fine. Fine. No worry. No problem.” She taps her foot to demonstrate it’s working. “I think you Mr. Chow, not customer. Sorry not get up.”
I am at least a full head taller than she is. We give each other the once-over—me discreetly, she overtly. She glances off, clears her throat. She has a mole above her lip, gray streaks in her bun, and glasses. I have pinkish lips, thick hair loose over my shoulders, and wide-set eyes. Mrs. Chow wears black Keds and a bright apron decorated with orange and red barbecue tools. I wear penny loafers and hose, a pale blue sweater and skirt, and a white blouse. Her middle is round. Mine is not. Her hands look strong and scarred. Mine are pale and untouched. She starts to say something, then doesn’t. She smiles. So do I. She is not Gone Mom. I like her instantly.
She sweeps her hand. “You want something special?” Her voice rockets out of her mouth, probably from years of commandeering a kitchen over the sizzling stove and dirty dish sprayer.
“No, ma’am, I just dropped by. I’m uh . . . a friend of Mr. Howard, who cleans here.”
“Mr. Howard? Ah!” Her hands fly up. She gives me a bow. “Mr. Howard best chef anywhere. Even China.”
Chef? “But . . .” My words catch on the net of assumptions I have made about Mr. Howard. My face burns. I scramble for a way out of my mess. “Yes, h—he mentioned his dim sum and the long-life New Year’s noodles.”
Mrs. Chow nods as though she can taste them this minute. I tell her my name is Lily and—thank you, God—she does not ask any questions. I scan the crowded displays. Back scratchers, fans, cloisonné mirrors, ashtrays, and shiny wrist rests with the calligraphy sets. Of course, there’s no bootie to match mine. Just black cloth slippers with straps like Gone Mom wore. I spot a carved box like mine—bright red with sticks of incense lined up like cigarettes.
“Lacquer,” Mrs. Chow remarks. “Sap lacquer tree, dry, and carve. Very strong.”
My incense box is better, with sharper carving and clearer layers of color and it contains the few remaining perfumed flakes of Gone Mom.
“You know Mr. Howard in school?” Mrs. Chow asks, her dark eyes round and bright.
“Yes.”
She tilts her head. “You only Chinese person there?”
“Yes.”
“That hard. You brave girl. No Chinese sister, no brother?”
This sentence comes out without my permission. “I have a brother but he isn’t Chinese.”
Mrs. Chow pauses a minute, thinking. She nods to herself and resumes unpacking a box of cutesy Chinese dolls wearing bright jackets and painted-on sandals. The faces are all identical. The girl dolls have thick bangs and shiny black braids with tight bows at the bottom. Mrs. Chow flaps her hand at me. “Take time. Look.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Touch! Touch!” She blows a wooden flute, points to a calligraphy set, and pushes a ceramic dragon labeled QUI toward me. “Qui baby dragon. Say chew, like ah . . . choo! Best Chinese stuff anywhere. Touch China here. Taste China here. Better than big art museum. Pfff! ” She waves away an imaginary museum, then rubs her hands together. “Can’t touch China in art museum. All antique.”
I read the labels on a shelf of small sculptures. BUDDHA—AWAKENED SPIRITUAL TEACHER, PHOENIX AND DRAGON—ANCIENT MYTHICAL SYMBOLS, CHIMERA—GUARDIANS AGAINST EVIL SPIRITS, and BODHISATTVA. I recognize the word from my fortune cookie. Some figures are painted gold. Others are bronze with fancy necklaces and scarves. The description of the bodhisattva is simple and confusing: “An enlightenment being.” Enlightenment being? “Person who shows compassion for others without judgment.” I pick up a bodhisattva. It is surprisingly heavy. I balance it on my hands, raise it high. The face is serene with a slight smile. The fingers are bent in what looks to be Chinese sign language. Mrs. Chow points to the crystal embedded in the forehead. “Called urna—the bodhisattva’s wisdom eye. Can see right to heart.” She motions to an alcove in the wall behind the front counter. On it sits a large statue with candles and incense sticks. “Bodhisattva a person of good spirit who bring people together. Very earthy.”
“I got a cookie fortune once that said, ‘Bodhisattvas surround you.’ ”
Mrs. Chow smiles, pats her heart. “Mr. Howard my bodhisattva.” She claps her hands. “And he good cook!” Her laugh winds around her front teeth. She gives me a deep look, as if my face is a map she’s reading. “You very pretty, Lily.” I touch my cheek. The aquarium bubbles. The fish circle. A shadow crosses Mrs. Chow’s face. “But China hard for girl like you—no chance!” Her tone turns bitter. “China hard place any girl.” She jabs her finger at me. “You thank mother who bring you here. She save your life.” She raises her chin. “We happy. Our son in Michigan Medical School.”
Mrs. Chow stands, dusts off her apron, and announces, “Tea!” She heads to the kitchen. I examine the shelves of toothpick holders, jolly Buddhas, and wind chimes. Minutes later Mrs. Chow returns and sets a wooden tray on the floor. It contains three cups and a steaming pot. Mr. Chow shuffles in behind her. The cups are small with no handles. She pours all three. He gives me my cup with both hands. “Always two hand,” Mrs. Chow explains. “Do this.” She taps her index and middle fingers on the table. “Thank you.”
I put my cup down, tap two burning-hot fingertips on the table, and say, “Thank you.”
“No speak. Just tap.”
“Okay.” I tap and nod.
Mr. Chow grins at me. There’s a fleck of tea leaf stuck to his mouth but his wife doesn’t bother him about it. It just hangs there. I think of Mother having a conniption at dinner when Dad has a crumb on his lip. And that’s not all she’ll have a fit about if she learns that two out of four Firestones have traversed the forbidden Bamboo Curtain into the House of Chow.
“Okay,” I say when our tea is over. “Thank you. Nice to meet you.” I bend over and nod, then straighten up quick. Did I just bow? I head out the door empty-handed and quickly turn around. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I w—would like to buy one of the dolls. A girl.”
Mrs. Chow holds one in each fist. “Color?”
I scan the rainbow of China dolls with perfect cheeks and unblinking eyes. Choose me, Lily. No! Pick me.
“Pink,” I croak. “I’d like the pink clothes.”
I dig for my coin purse but Mrs. Chow holds up a hand. “No buy. Give.”
She fixes a small cardboard box with a bed of tissue paper and places my pink girl and the little satin pillow she’s supposed to sit on inside. Mrs. Chow’s fingers are short but nimble. She has a simple silver wedding band, and a world of calluses and old burn scars up and down her arms.
She sees me watching, examines herself a moment. “I hate laundry work. No more iron.” She pretends to wipe decades-old sweat from her forehead, turns to her husband. “Ha! We steam dumpling now, not shirt!”
I smile.
Mrs. Chow nods, pats her chest. “You call me Auntie Chow.”
I bow again. “Thank you, Auntie Chow.” And I walk out the door.
Chapter 16
Oh no. Ahead of me down the corridor, strolling like royalty, come Anita and her boyfriend, Steve, who is the all-time school-champion side
stepper of the chink. He is also Neil Bradford’s best friend. Steve’s and Anita’s hearts pump liquid Red Hots.
Anita spots me coming. Her eyes dart like scared roaches. The hall is narrow and empty with no shuffling crowd to buffer us. I slow way down, eyes on her, my stomach churning as they approach. So, Anita, when Steve does his typical enemy sidestep, what’re you gonna do? Look at me, or not? Sidestep too? Don’t sidestep? Ignore Steve? Turn around? Start coughing, sneezing, choking? Gaze into thin air? Go blind?
Anita slides around behind Steve and switches places so he’s by the wall. She shifts her books to her left arm and slides the right through his bent elbow. Parked a distance ahead of them, right in their path, is one of Mr. Howard’s rolling utility cans full of trash. Anita looks up at me in a complicated help! kind of way. I square my shoulders and let my feet steer me across the centerline so they will have to either slow way down or bump into the trash. I have them, for a split second, trapped.
They stop. Steve makes a slight I smell garbage sniff. I look right at him and sniff back. Anita looks down. I glide past them all the way to my locker, my insides buzzing. Ha! I twirl the lock but I can’t remember my combination. No matter. For once, I do not want to crawl in it.
I hug my books, staring at the vents in the chipped metal door, and try to calm down. I wonder what they would have done if I was walking with Elliot James. Hmm . . . battle won. But, ugh. A victory, I guess. But it doesn’t feel like one.
Elliot never would have stooped so low. Neither would Mr. Howard.
Sorry, everybody. I acted as pathetic as them.
* * *
While the rest of the world continues to obsess over Valentine’s, just two days away, I am lining my bathroom sink with a towel and running my weird bootie under the faucet. A web of hairline cracks appears on the surface, plus faint flecks of gold on the toe. I set it next to my new Chinese doll, which is so gaudy compared to this serious little slipper.
Next I rinse the broken jade piece. Detailed cuts of a scaly tail show up. I hold it to the light. A lizard has been hiding inside it all along.
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