by Paul Yee
In the hotel, So-ying watched her husband heave heavy coal into boilers that heated the building, soak bedding in cement tubs, and crawl on his knees to wax and polish the long halls. Lan and Lok-hay ran busy through the day, seven days a week. Lan bent over a sewing machine powered by a foot pedal to mend sheets and towels. She dipped pillowcases into starch before ironing them, and explained to So-ying how this extended the life of the cloth. Even during mealtimes, the telephone rang and boarders banged at the counter to borrow keys, pay rent or bemoan the lack of heat. So-ying offered to help, but Lan said respectfully, “You are the First Wife. You don’t need to work.”
Every night, her son raced to Lan’s apartment to watch television. For hours he sprawled before the swirling lights, mesmerized by the jingles, armed cowboys and constant smiles. Sometimes he fell asleep there and didn’t return until morning. When So-ying complained, her husband replied, “This way he will learn English faster.”
Now and then, she saw Lok-hay press his lips to Lan’s mouth. So-ying longed to smile the same way as Lan. Sometimes, Lok-hay or Lan took the children to the movies, but So-ying stayed home, as she knew no English. She hid her hurt inside like a mound of ice that couldn’t melt, and sat alone in her room. The faded, yellowing blossoms on the wallpaper brought her no cheer. The sink was rusty, but no matter how she scrubbed, she could not clean it. When she felt the four walls closing in, she ambled along the corridors of each floor by herself.
On one such stroll, she heard an anguished voice call out, “Save me!”
She looked around. Again she heard the call for help, and followed it to a door. She tapped lightly on the frame.
“Are you all right?”
The door swung open. The curtains were drawn shut but a lamp threw a glow over an old man in bed. He had bushy white hair, a face brown and speckled as a potato, and big-boned hands.
“Please,” he cried out, “bend my toes toward my shin. Use your strength, for a terrible pain burns down there.”
So-ying obeyed, and the man’s face gradually relaxed.
“Sit,” he commanded, “and keep an old man company. How long since you came here?”
“Too long,” she replied bitterly.
“Me, too,” he said. “Seventy-five years.”
“Twice my age!” exclaimed So-ying. “I have only been here for four months.”
The old man’s eyes brightened. “Then you have fresh memories of China. Tell me all you remember.”
After that, she visited the old man regularly. On each occasion she told him about her village routines: awaking to the rooster’s call, munching cold rice at breakfast, wading through the paddy to supervise planting, lugging water home, shouting over the walls at neighbors. She described tiled roofs tinged with green moss, golden fields at harvest time and soft hills that glowed pink at night. She recalled the people of Middle Creek village: Gossip Chen whose tongue had swelled up and prevented her from speaking, Toothpick Jin who married the shortest girl in the district, Four-Eyes Ming who wore sunglasses to hide his one glass eye, and Fatty May who devoured five bowls of plain rice at every meal because she had never eaten enough as a child.
These memories teased smiles onto So-ying’s face. But she feared losing this friend to her son and stepdaughters who dominated the dinnertime conversations, so she told no one about him. After each day’s story, the man sighed with immense satisfaction, for he longed to see China again. He called her a godsend who brightened an old man’s final dark days.
Then one day she arrived and found his room empty. The curtains were open and sunlight poured in. The bed was neatly made with blankets stretched from side to side.
Downstairs in the office, she asked, “What happened to the man in Room 424?”
The knot in Lok-hay’s throat bobbed nervously. “Why, the tenant there died four years ago. That room is haunted. Renters run out, screaming that an old man stands there, rocking and shaking the bed. The door has been locked ever since.”
“You mean no one lives there?”
“Not for four years.”
So-ying shuddered and fell faint. Then she threw her shoulders back and declared, “I’ll take that room. Our son will appreciate having a room to himself.”
She moved in and waited. But the old man never came back, even though she stayed in all day with the curtains closed and murmured his name. As the bedside clock ticked on, she tried to recall village life, but the memories wouldn’t come without an appreciative audience.
One day at dinner, So-ying watched Jee-wah ignore his bowl, half full of rice. Lok-hay said rice was cheap here and wouldn’t force the boy to swallow every grain. His girls ate dainty amounts of rice and preferred raw vegetables. So-ying could barely eat as they munched uncooked spinach and lettuce like water buffalo chewing straw.
Then Jee-wah spoke. “Baba, parents are invited to school to meet the teacher. Will you come?”
So-ying perked up. Here was a chance for Lok-hay and her to go out alone with their son. Here was an opportunity for outsiders to acknowledge she was Jee-wah’s mother.
Lok-hay nodded absently. “Of course I will.”
Then Jee-wah turned to So-ying. “Ma, I want Lan-Mother to come with Baba. You don’t understand English, so what’s the use?”
All eyes around the table landed on her. Her heart pounded, and warmth drained out of her body. She stared at the tablecloth and muttered, “Well, if that would be better, then I will stay home.”
No one said a word, no one disagreed with her. Afterwards, tears washed her cheeks as she climbed the stairs to her room.
Opening the door, she was startled to find her friend the old man there. Her mind was a muddle as he called out with warmth and concern, “Little Sister, why so sad?”
“I no longer have a son. I am no longer a mother.
The old man drew close. “Want to come with me?”
“No!” She backed off. “I won’t die yet!”
“Don’t be silly. Who’s talking about death?” His voice was calm. “There is a third place for people like us, people trapped by space and time, by events bigger than us. In the third place, our memories become real worlds, and there we live happily until it is time to die. You gave me back my memories of China so I could go there. Will you come, too?”
She did not know what to say.
He asked bluntly, “Tell me, are you happy here?”
Her reply was bitter. “Happy? Can anyone count on joy so far from home?”
The next morning, when So-ying did not show for breakfast, Lok-hay went to look for her. Room 424 was empty. The family searched the entire hotel and the neighborhood before calling the police. They never found her.
But friends of Lok-hay who worked on the trains reported catching glimpses of her riding the train, sitting beside the long windows and watching the scenery fly by. It was the last place where she had been happy.
TEN
Reunited
IN 1955, WHEN A father he had never met summoned Tong Lung to North America, the teenager stayed in bed in Hong Kong for days, playing sick. His father had worked abroad for many decades in order to send money home. To maximize these remittances, Ba chose not to travel across the Pacific for visits, and so Tong grew up seeing only photographs of his father.
Tong spent Ba’s money freely. In Hong Kong there were Hollywood movies, Top Ten songs from England and the latest motorbikes. When he and his buddies entered a restaurant or shop, waiters and clerks bowed and fawned, knowing that the sons of Gold Mountain men tipped well. And pretty girls flocked to Tong’s good looks and his taste in Western restaurants, Taiwanese singers and European fashions.
Then Ba insisted he relocate, and threatened to withhold funds if he did not. It was time the boy shouldered adult responsibilities, he said.
But Tong relished the freedom to spend and party as he pleased. When one
school proved too rigorous, he transferred to another. Lately, his mother had been preoccupied with her ailing parents, refugees from China with no other kin. She decided to stay and care for them. Tong suspected his father would prove old-fashioned and strict, for his letters pestered him to do well at school and to obey his mother.
At the airport, his mother asked, “Will you see to your father the same way I nurse my parents?”
Tong turned away. Then, much to his own surprise, tears coursed down his face as he said goodbye to his grandparents. They had been his loving guardians when he was little and his mother worked in a factory.
“Try to change your attitude,” Grandmother advised. “Respect your father, otherwise his spirit could return and ruin your life.”
Tong stiffened. Modern young men didn’t believe in ghosts.
He traveled across the Pacific Ocean by himself and spent four days sleeping upright on a train that crossed the continent. When the train reached its destination, Tong wished it would rumble right through and plunge into the Atlantic.
Under the stations high, ornate ceiling, he spotted Ba, looking just as stiff as he did in the faded wedding photos at home. While other greeters kissed and hugged their loved ones, he and his father shook hands like businessmen. The gray-haired man’s strong grip surprised Tong.
“I’ve waited a long time,” his father said.
Outside, the teen went toward the taxi stand.
“Where are you going?” his father shouted. “We’re walking.”
Luggage in hand, they dodged pedestrians and passed office towers so tall they nudged low clouds. Streetcars rumbled by on steel rails imbedded in roads jammed with fat grumbling trucks. Hong Kong had big buildings and streetcars, too, but Tong stared at the cars crowding the corners and streaming through the streets. There were more here, and they were bigger, in all colors and with many teenagers in the drivers seats.
As they passed a sugary-smelling coffee shop, Tong offered, “Ba, let me buy you something to drink.”
The older man shook his head. “There’s tea at home.”
They passed a restaurant leaking savory aromas under a marquee of winking lights.
“Are you hungry, Ba? Let me buy you a steak.”
His father walked faster. “Do you realize you are spending my money?
Finally they reached a street of identical apartment blocks and few trees and stopped at a storefront with a hand-stenciled sign and withered plants in the window.
“This is my laundry,” Ba said. “This is where I live.”
In the back, bunk beds were propped in a corner of the drying room by a potbellied stove. A refrigerator and stove stood by tubs used for soaking dirty clothes, while a wringer and steam boiler clattered and groaned. The workroom was cramped and hot and had no windows. Fresh air squeezed through the back door only if a breeze chanced that way.
Tongs chest churned with dismay as he recalled Hong Kong workshops where laborers stripped to the waist to sweat all day long. He never imagined his own father working like them.
That first night, Ba took him to a Chinatown restaurant to meet his friends. Tong ate quietly as the Gold Mountain uncles drank and roared at one another. They spoke country dialects and ignored the boy’s half-hearted questions. Out of respect for his father, Tong didn’t touch the liquor. But the one other teenager at the table drank freely. Ba introduced them and asked Kam to register Tong for school.
Tong hated high school. He flailed in conversations, fumbled for words and thought his fellow students mocked his English. Even slim books took forever to read, and the teacher would erase the blackboard before he had a chance to copy down the assignment. After classes, he was ordered home to iron underwear, feed bedsheets into the mangle, or wrap clean laundry with brown paper. Ba nagged him to practice his English on customers, and often the work lasted until midnight.
Kam smoked cigarettes and bantered with chums and teachers. His father owned several restaurants and lived in a house with a circular driveway. Tong followed his new friend whenever he escaped the laundry.
When Kam suggested Tong buy new clothes, Ba pointed to the garments abandoned by customers. “Find something from there.” When Kam invited Tong to Montreal, Ba said, “I’ve lived here forty years and never gone. Why should you?”
Kam tried to cheer up Tong. He taught him to drive, so they skipped classes and drove down country roads playing the radio. Some nights, they parked in midtown to gaze at the colored lights glowing downtown.
Only when the car was shooting along highways did Tong smile. Only then did he sense freedom and future possibilities. But Kam soon found a steady girlfriend, and Tong resented how the two lovebirds held hands and cooed to each other.
One day after school, Tong passed a car dealership and saw the season’s new models. He lingered for a long time, looking at the shiny chrome and colors.
When he reached home, he helped his father fold sheets and said, “Let’s buy a car.”
“We don’t need one.”
“We can use it to deliver laundry.”
“Our customers pick up.”
“Instead of walking downtown to shop, we can drive and save time.”
His father exploded. “Why buy a car? To show off? To get the attention of pretty girls? Workers like me don’t have automobiles and we don’t waste good money. Aren’t the streetcars good enough? Besides, where would we get the money?”
Tong shot back, “You have lots saved.”
His father glared. “How would you know?”
“I saw your bank book.”
The old man drew a furious breath and barked, “That’s retirement money! You think I plan to work like this all my life?”
“No!” replied Tong. “You should enjoy life now. With a car, you can go for drives in the countryside or visit friends.”
Ba waved him off and started humming his usual opera tunes.
The next day, Tong walked onto the lot of the car dealership. He bent over and saw his face reflected in the shiny paint. He opened the door and inhaled the smell of new upholstery. He wriggled behind the steering wheel, adjusted the mirrors and imagined coasting along an endless highway.
A bow-tied salesman leaned in the window. “You know, it only takes a tiny down payment to take this baby home.”
“Down payment?”
“You pay two hundred dollars now and pay the rest over the next five years.”
Tong shook his head. “I don’t have two hundred dollars.”
The salesman grinned. “It’s not a lot of money. Ask five people for forty dollars and you’ve got it. Come on, it’s a beautiful day outside. Let’s take her for a test drive.”
Tong glanced at his watch. He should be home working. Ba would be waiting. The later he returned, the angrier the old man would be. But two hours passed before the teenager tore himself away from the car.
“Forty dollars from five people. That’s all I need,” he kept thinking.
When he reached his street, police cars and an ambulance with flashing lights blocked the store. He rushed through the onlookers. Officers tried to hold him back, but he saw his father lying limp and bloodstained on the floor.
Someone in a uniform explained, “There was a holdup. Witnesses heard gunshots and saw a masked man run out.”
Tong sank to the ground, and his head dropped onto his arms and knees. If he had been home as scheduled, his father might still be alive. Maybe Ba had thought he was at the door when it had been a stranger brandishing a pistol. His father should have handed over the money without fighting back. The cashbox lay ripped and empty. At days end, it usually brimmed with bills and silver.
Tong shut his eyes and thought how Ba’s life resembled the flimsy cashbox. The old man had saved every penny and nickel he could, seeking a peaceful retirement, but now it was too late.
That night, Tong could not sleep as he recalled his grandmother’s words. He had not respected his father as she had instructed. In life, Ba had proved so cranky and bitter that it was hard to believe such toughness and strength could suddenly vanish. His father’s spirit would be powerful in death.
But the more Tong thought, the angrier he felt. His father had wasted his life. The old man had worked far too hard and never experienced a moment of joy. If he had relaxed about money, they could have eaten well and enjoyed themselves. Instead of fighting, they might have become friends.
He resolved not to repeat his father’s mistake.
At the funeral, Ba’s friends sat with heads bowed in quiet rows. Tong saw their shabby suits and wrinkled ties and wished he had offered to clean them before the service.
Later, one Gold Mountain uncle approached him and said, “That is a nice photo of your father. I wasn’t sure you knew to place a picture at the front to help people remember him.”
Another uncle came and said, “Thank you for announcing cash donations to the clubs your father joined. He subscribed to many good causes.”
Someone asked, “Where will lunch be served?”
Tong replied, “In Chinatown’s biggest restaurant. I have ordered all his favorite foods.”
The Gold Mountain uncles donned their hats and hurried off. Some hadn’t eaten breakfast so that they could take advantage of the feast.
A week later, the will was read and Tong received much of his father s money. Right away he purchased the car he had been eyeing and parked it in front of the laundry where everyone could see. Steel and glass and chrome had been shaped into generous curves, and the line of glowing lights above the rear bumper resembled a neon sign. The dashboard lit up like the cockpit of an airplane, with gauges and switches pushing back the dark.
