Adelaide stepped down off her stool, then bent to the base of the tree to pick something up; she approached us.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, and held out a box wrapped in red decorating paper.
“W-we shouldn’t—” I said, but Chang had already begun opening it. The box contained an embroidered needlepoint depicting my brother and me, and was crowned with the title “The Siamees Twins.”
“This is lovely,” I said, feeling derelict about not having gotten the Yateses a gift. “We haven’t—” Then Chang stepped on my foot, silencing me. His yellow-gray eyes were daydreamy.
“We had not known you giving gifts in morning,” he interrupted. “Wait, please.” Then he began to run down the corridor. I had to collect myself just to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?” I wheezed.
When we reached our room, Chang turned toward our crate of personal possessions and bent us down beside it. He came away with a small jade dragon figurine that we had gotten from King Rama’s palace many years before.
“What are you doing?” I asked. He did not answer. I loved that dragon.
Before I could say anything, we were speeding back to the girls in the other room. Sarah had come to stand next to her sister and mother. She too wore a hat, tilted high on her brow.
Trotting us to our hosts, Chang handed the dragon over to Adelaide. “Merry Christmas, Yates family, and Happy News Year,” he said. “Sorry,” he said, still out of breath. “It not wrapped.” He swallowed. “For you—a present. From Siam. My country. Our country.”
I stood dumbfounded.
The girls bent down to show it to their mother, and in the commotion of women’s voices that followed I whispered to my brother: “This was ours.”
Chang blinked at me as if I had spoken French or another tongue he knew nothing of.
Looking at the dragon in her daughter’s fingers, Mrs. Yates said, “That for sure is quite handsome, boys.”
“It obviously, obviously is, don’t you think, Mother?” Adelaide gushed, although she wasn’t looking at Mrs. Yates; she was peering at my brother, but not for too long, because every few seconds she would look down shyly, her long eyelashes lashing.
Until Wilkesboro, I knew what travel had in store for me: conjoined fraternity, beds too narrow for our double structure and few surprises. But now my brother knew love, that unfathomable word I would never even have said aloud, like the untellable name of Rama or God Himself. I understood nothing of what lay ahead of us—of me—and a panic gripped my heart.
Everyone around me was talking, and I missed whatever witticism it was that my brother had used to charm Adelaide, but she was laughing, saying, “Oh, Mr. Chang.” She listened to everything he said and her eyes were bluer than the water of the Mekong had ever been.
I found myself noticing the gentle landscape of Sarah’s face, which was troubled only by wrinkles she caused by chewing on her lip, and by the crow’s-feet just starting to dawn around her eyes. Sarah’s was a homely beauty, filled with a melancholy grace living in those places up and down her long frame where it was most obvious the end of her youth was drawing near: the doughy skin at the base of her neck, the slight hunch of her shoulders.
She caught me looking, and she turned her head quickly, offering a view only of her cheek, leaving most of her face concealed by her hat.
Could I be falling in love with her? I asked myself. Is this what tender sentiment feels like?
Perhaps you are, I told myself. It could be so.
This discovery, which would have reduced me to fear and despondency just minutes before, seemed now little more than a whimsical circumstance that somehow did not concern me directly. Rather than a flood of passion, love came to me as a curious and distant spectacle. But I shared my brother’s resolve to marry like ordinary human beings, to experience the matrimonial joy less deserving men relished.
Now I had only to win her over, as Chang had done with her sister.
I smiled. Sarah once again looked away; I could no longer enjoy a glimpse of her face. Meanwhile, my brother’s Adelaide, still looking down, gathered some stray locks of her hair that were sticking out from under her bonnet and tucked them lovelily behind her ear while she stared at my twin.
Later that day, we had Christmas dinner with the entire Yates family. The girls had prepared sweet potato butter and spicy apple preserve, which we enjoyed on sesame crackers, along with biscuits and hominy grits topped by sorghum molasses. And we sat across from Jefferson and Mrs. Yates. Mr. Yates perched himself between his two daughters, a strict planet with pull over this pair of dutiful female moons.
The dining room, however humble, was the heart of Mr. Yates’s palace, and I read in his shining disdainful eyes an attitude of superiority toward all. All except Mrs. Yates, that is—the one member of the family who seemed not to bow.
The girls made a deliberate effort to avoid mentioning that gifts had been exchanged between us. In fact, when my brother started to bring up the needlepoint we had received, Adelaide and Mrs. Yates shot him a silencing glance simultaneously.
And Mr. Yates was inclined not to hear about it. With his wild hair and his abiding frown, he avoided looking at my brother and me, to escape seeing us look at his daughters.
Mr. Yates opened a prayer pamphlet: The First Wilkesboro Presbyterian Church Christmas Meal Guidebook. He bowed his head and began to read, if not well, then earnestly: “ ‘Jesus set foot into the world like each one of us, dependent upon others, vulnerable to hunger and thirst, to cold and to mischance. ”The Word became flesh and lived among us,” says the Gospel of John—the Word was a child, newborn and dependent.’ ” He paused for emotional efficacy. “ ‘Through the birth of Our Lord Jesus, God revealed Himself, and He was in the end dependent upon human beings. This God loved us so, that He elevated frail, flawed humans to the level of accomplice in our own salvation. We were, and remain, partners with the Lord.’ ” He cleared his throat. “ ‘Christmas is a story about those who believe taking possession of that which we most want, nay, that which we most need: love—rich, powerful, unreserved love.’ ”
Across the table, Sarah’s face coaxed a soft-heartedness from me. I wanted to run my finger across the skin of her cheek. Yes, I found God for the first time that day. I had never known a woman’s skin. Sarah’s skin looked softer than Chang’s, or mine.
“ ‘More than anything, the Christmas story enumerates the lengths to which God so loved us—loves us—that he asks us to be partners in cherishing the world and each other.’ Amen.” Mr. Yates put the book down.
The food was delicious, and no one spoke at first. But then Mrs. Yates said, “Would you be kind enough to tell us what Europe is like?” Though she was addressing Chang and me, she was throwing her husband a smile of the furtive kind.
Mr. Yates turned to my brother and me. His disdainful eyes had seized authority over his face. Chang did not notice. “You never see the Continent?” my brother asked Mrs. Yates.
“Europe? Oh, how I wish I could.”
“Paris,” Chang said. “So beautiful—” He was enjoying the role. “A lady.”
“What about New York?” asked Adelaide, wide-eyed.
Mr. Yates stared at Chang staring at Adelaide. The father’s face had lost its color.
“If Paris am a lady,” Chang grinned, “New York ... not a lady.”
Mr. Yates moaned, though neither Chang nor Adelaide heard it, and the way he then glared at his wife, then at me, put a knob in my stomach.
Adelaide went on, “Well, I always wanted to see—”
“That city New York,” spat Mr. Yates, “is filled with Yankees. That’s the other world from here,” he said. “New York is foreigners to us.” And Mr. Yates continued staring and staring and did not look away, and the humdrum rhythm of life ceased. My brother’s swallow seemed the loudest sound in history. Finally Yates said, “Maybe you would not understand that.”
New York, that unforgiving galaxy of firelight, concret
e, and shadow; Boston and Philadelphia and Washington, twinkling like matchsticks in feeble mimicry of New York’s glow; the dripping gray beast that was London, making sport of all visitors; St. Petersburg, with its vast squares, cold palaces, and ruthless stillness; Paris, city of clever talkers and derisive beauty—these places, none of them were ever anything but foreign to me. And I to them. “Perhaps you are right, sir,” I answered.
And then, in a series of quick, jerky movements—straightening her dress over twitching knees, resting her long and slender ringless hands on her chair for support—Sarah stood. She narrowed her eyes at her sister. Adelaide seemed so happy, and Sarah forced a smile herself (the feigned naturalness of that smile was the saddest thing about her face) and, turning toward my brother and me, careful not to look at us directly, she said: “I’m sorry, but do you’all ever just find this time of year a grim business? It absolutely upsets the stomach. I’m sorry, but I see this time of year as a grim business.” Absentmindedly she ran a finger down her chin, gently tracing its lovely length.
Mrs. Yates said: “Sarah apologizes for wanting to retire so early, but she gets awful tired on the holidays, don’t you, dear—with your stomach? Jefferson, which Easter was it when she—”
“That’s all right, Sarah,” said Mr. Yates to his daughter, softly. “You go to sleep now.”
She left the room without excusing herself. Mr. Yates stared into his hand, scratching his palm. “Well, I think the rest of us may be fixing to retire, too,” he said in a defeated voice, and he stood up.
“I was wondering ...” Yates continued, speaking softly to conceal the ragged edge on his words. “Wondering how long you boys plan to linger at our inn—no hurry, I just need to know for guests’ list arrangements and details of that nature, that manner. And I’m sure you wouldn’t have liked to stay too long in our home.”
He took a breath. “It has been a pleasure having you two stay here, it has—showing you the way we live here in Wilkes County. But the idea is that we’re Southern white folk, my family is Scots-Irish. She is”—he gave a slight nod to his wife, and then to Adelaide—“and she is, too; so’s Jeff here, and my other one also is, and the idea is we’ve produced all the things that make up a culture—not us, but our kind, I mean—like art and science and the cotton gin . . .” His gruff voice trailed off, though it didn’t seem he’d lost the thread of his thought.
He scrutinized his shoes and, as if he’d found the hour displayed down there, muttered that it was time for him to excuse himself. He began to walk toward the door. Jefferson followed behind.
Mrs. Yates did not stir; rather she sat more deeply in her chair. “It sure has been a pleasure to have you two famous, good Siamese brothers here at our inn!” she cried, turning to Adelaide, who was herself beginning to rise to join her father.
Mrs. Yates’s squint implored Adelaide to stay seated, and the daughter did so, easing back into her reclining position.
The mother said, “They remind me of a—of a breath of fresh air. Ain’t that so, Adelaide? A breath of fresh air, these two Siamese boys from Siam?”
Mr. Yates turned around and saw that his wife and daughter were still sitting. “Adelaide!” he said. “Aren’t you going to help your mother out of her chair?”
“We are going to continue sitting here a time,” Mrs. Yates shot at him.
The husband and wife looked at each other like strangers. The sound of Sarah closing a door upstairs echoed. Then Mrs. Yates gave her husband a smirk. “We are going to continue sitting here a time, Addie and me.”
Mr. Yates coarsely said good night. When he and Jefferson left, Chang continued talking about Europe.
Soon Mrs. Yates had fallen asleep, however, an event that was greeted with giggles from Adelaide and Chang. Adelaide’s smile, her voice, even her physical movement became more grand and energetic by degrees; she was like a balloon inflating, and as she grew the world shrank around her, until she dominated the room. She got up and sat next to us, by my brother’s side. She was in her way the loveliest woman I had seen.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, removing a lock of hair from her face and looking sidelong at Chang. It was as if I had ceased to be.
Certainly, she could not at all want for Chang to kiss her, in spite of her eyes, her slowly approaching shoulder, and the way she licked her lips shyly. Passion and platonic friendliness, often contrary siblings, frequently wear similar faces to hide the great distance between them, I thought.
Adelaide was breathing deep and quick. “I know what you are thinking, Chang,” she said again.
“W-what I thinking?”
I looked away. But I could feel my brother’s heart pounding through my own chest. His hand was sweaty and fidgeted upon the crook between my neck and shoulder.
Adelaide took his hand.
This bold gesture was a shock, of course. She is being friendly, I thought. No more than that. What was it like for my brother to be touched by her?
The creaking wood of the house in the silence of the evening, the gloomy candlelight in the room, the ice-studded black of the sky outside, all these could not have been more passionless, I told myself.
“Well,” my brother put up a brave facade, began to smile, “Chang am thinking: ‘Why this girl not married already?’ ”
His idea of a compliment fell short of its intended result; she recoiled and pulled her hand from his.
“I ain’t married and I am here talking with you.” She introduced frost to her tone. “There ain’t nothing more to say.” After a second, though, she exhaled her venom, and as she breathed in, she brought the smile back to her lips. “Besides,” she murmured quietly, “that obviously ain’t really what you was thinking.”
Chang looked over at Mrs. Yates to make sure the old woman was still asleep. Then, after whistling to manufacture some courage, he said, “I love you,” the words creeping out on little tiptoes like children stealing from their beds at night.
“What did you say?” asked Adelaide. She had heard him, without a doubt, though he had spoken delicately. She had heard. As for me, the only thing I could think was that my ears had lost their credibility.
“Adelaide, I love you.” His mouth was a big grinning loop.
“Do you?” Hers was less a smile than a glower. “Swear it.”
“I love you.”
“Swear it, Chinaman.”
“I swear. On, on—” He looked around the room frantically, then out the window. “On the moon up in sky.” He smiled.
“Oh, don’t you go swearing love by the stupid old moon, boy; that thing disappears every morning.”
Chang frowned. He asked, “You—. . . love me?”
Adelaide looked deeply into my brother’s eyes. What was happening? With one hand she haphazardly pulled on the top of her dress to situate her chest more comfortably under her clothing. She inched her bottom into a more cozy position.
“Yes,” she answered. “I suppose I might.” She was fetching, even to me.
Meanwhile, Chang had let loose a sound that was almost a tweet, and he laughed. At that moment they embraced, they did embrace. I was not blind to my own deep bitter want. I needed to say something, even some silly incongruous thing, but I did not—only because words failed me. I felt more isolated in that room with my twin and Adelaide and Mrs. Yates than I thought possible.
Adelaide hugged Chang and pulled him toward her; it yanked me nearly off of my seat. Chang and I were now halfway toward face-to-face, a position that stretched our band painfully. I cleared my throat to remind my brother of my company, and I slid us back to our original position. I tried to imagine myself in Chang’s place and could not fathom it.
My twin sighed as he disengaged from their hug. Then he touched our band and continued to ignore me as he told Adelaide: “But with me ... special problems—”
They both turned to look at me before continuing.
“But,” she said, turning back to face him only, “if a love is obvious
ly strong, even Fort Sumter can’t hold that love out. You do love me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What is the first thing about me that would make you stop loving me?”
My brother swallowed, then waited a long time before saying: “How long you stay in love with me?”
She screwed up her lips and thought hard for a moment. Adelaide smiled. “You really this charming all the time?”
“You always be this beautiful—never go fat?” Chang said.
“How many children do you want to have?” she asked.
Chang blurted out, “What is thing you loving least of me?”
I wanted to hear the answer to this one as well. Before she could answer, he went on.
“I like when you smiling,” he said.
It is a bright, happy smile, I said to myself.
“What is it that you love about me, boy, exactly?” I thought I noticed a slight quiver at her upper lip.
“You make neat house?” he asked her, and they laughed.
“You love me?” he could barely get the words out over his guffawing.
At this she stopped giggling, which, in turn, stopped him from laughing, too.
She had lost her smile by the time she said: “Do you want me to tell you the truth always, about everything? Because I will. If you want.” She was serious as a preacher. She took his hands and squeezed them. “In what ways does this here woman come up short of your hopes already?”
Then she said: “Boy, that’s a heap of questions.” She resumed her habit of grinning slightly at the end of her remarks, an ironic and playful gesture. “Can you think of any others?”
“No,” Chang said.
“I can.” She looked ardently into my brother’s eyes. Her face grew its fiercest, and her thirty-two years showed. “One more you ain’t asked yet.”
Chang and Eng Page 7
