Leave Society

by Tao Lin

  “Walked two steps,” said Li’s mom.

  “Hasn’t used that technique before—walking a little,” said Li.

  “She’s thinking, ‘Do I want to or not?’ ” said Li’s mom. “Du, come!” She clapped seventeen times as a train passed on the elevated track parallel to the sidewalk. “Haven’t seen a dog like this before.”

  They walked ten feet farther from Dudu.

  “Du, come, Du, come,” shouted Li’s dad.

  “People are noticing her,” said Li.

  Before Dudu, Li’s parents had tried two other poodles. The first had been quiet until suddenly yowling at two a.m. They’d returned her. The second had been silent for three days. They’d returned him. At the store, they’d watched siblings play with a box. The sister, Dudu, had mouthed open a door that her brother hadn’t seemed to notice.

  “Go pick her up,” said Li’s dad, and hid behind a bush.

  “When she can’t see you, she’ll panic,” Li predicted.

  “Is she coming?” whispered Li’s dad.

  Dudu stood but didn’t walk.

  “Still not coming,” said Li with a laugh. “She knows we’ve waited a very long time before.”

  Sometimes she seemed to want to go home or elsewhere. Sometimes she seemed to be resting. Sometimes she seemed depressed or brain-dead. Usually, after a minute or so, Li or his parents would follow her elsewhere, walk in small steps behind her to mobilize her, or, most often, carry her.

  Li’s dad whistled. Dudu sat.

  “Sits down!” said Li’s mom.

  “Sits down,” said Li’s dad.

  “She knows we won’t leave her,” said Li. “She trusts us a lot.”

  “Normally, when she can’t see me, she panics,” said Li’s dad. “I’ll come out of hiding, then.” He got on the sidewalk. “Du, let’s go.”

  Dudu looked surreally wild or recently abandoned. She most feared being alone, without companions, Li’s mom had said once. Except for sitting, standing, taking two steps, sitting, standing, and sitting again, she hadn’t moved in six minutes.

  “We’ve waited so long today,” said Li. “We must not let her win.”

  “Is she sitting?” said Li’s dad. “If she’s sitting, someone will take her.”

  Dudu ignored a group of six passersby.

  “They’re pointing,” said Li’s mom. “Go get her. A wild dog might run out.”

  Li jogged to Dudu, picked her up, jogged back.

  “If you didn’t go to her, she’d have no dignity,” said Li’s mom. “If we ignored her, she’d have no dignity. And because you went to get her, she was like, ‘Okay, you’ve come, so I will walk.’ ”

  “This time she’s very happy,” said Li. “We waited so long.”

  “This way, she has more dignity,” said Li’s mom.

  “Next time, we’ll need to wait even longer,” said Li.

  “Someone will steal her,” said Li’s dad.

  “Next time, we’ll need to wait too long,” said Li.

  “Longer and longer each time,” said Li’s dad.

  “I heard one of those people say, ‘There is a dog…that no one wants,’ ” said Li’s mom.

  “Her hair is cut so short, she’ll be cold,” said a passerby, a woman in her fifties.

  “She’s not scared of the cold,” said Li’s dad about Dudu.

  “How do you know?” said the woman.

  “When she wears clothes, she refuses to walk,” said Li’s dad after a pause. In winter in Taipei, most small dogs wore clothes. Many wore shoes.

  “Is that so?” said the woman.

  “Dogs: let them run a bit and they won’t be cold,” said Li’s dad.

  “It’s because she’s young. If she was old—”

  “Young?” said Li’s dad. “She’s nine.”

  “Nine counts as young,” said the woman.

  “Mountain-climbing dog,” said Li’s dad. “She climbs mountains. Started when she was one.” From 2007, when she was born, to 2016 she’d only climbed once or twice, but it was only February 8, 2017, and she’d already climbed six times that year.

  As they approached a ramp that bikers sometimes careened down, Li’s dad picked up Dudu while saying, “Hug, hug.”

  “That person asked how we knew Du wasn’t cold,” said Li.

  “How would you respond?” said Li’s dad.

  “We don’t know,” said Li’s mom.

  “I do know,” said Li. “Wild dogs didn’t used to wear clothes.”

  “Ah,” said Li’s mom. “Dogs of the past.”

  “It’s healthier that way,” said Li. “If Du is a little cold, she’ll move. Wild dogs in the past all had to experience winter. They were cold every winter. Every year.”

  “Pet dogs are overprotected,” said Li’s mom.

  “She said, ‘How do you know she’s not cold?’ and I suddenly didn’t know what to say,” said Li’s dad.

  Li’s mom brought up Zhuangzi—a 2,300-year-old book by Zhuangzi in which a character named Zhuangzi, seeing minnows in a stream, said they were happy, and his friend said, “You’re not a fish; how do you know they’re happy?”

  “Then what?” said Li’s dad, who’d told Li the story many times over decades. “Fish are happy, then what? Li, let Li say it. What was the response?”

  “I’m thinking,” said Li. “Zhuangzi said the fish were happy, and the other person said, ‘How do you know they’re happy; you aren’t them,’ and Zhuangzi said, ‘You aren’t me; how do you know that I don’t know that they’re happy?’ ”

  “Ehh. Right, right!” said Li’s dad. “This is logic. Then what? If you add more?”

  “If you aren’t me, how do you know I don’t know the fish are very happy,” said Li’s mom.

  “And then what?” said Li’s dad. “You’re not me, so you don’t know. Then what?”

  “Then it’s endless!” said Li’s mom.

  “Then—no, no! Then you say, ‘You aren’t me. How do you know I don’t know you don’t know the fish are very happy,’ ” said Li’s dad, seeming to mangle it a bit, laughing.

  “I’m trying to think of a better answer,” said Li. “What you said, everyone knows.”

  “Just keep adding,” said Li’s dad.

  As Li tried to think of how to transcend the loop, he looked to his right and saw his dad looking at him with a self-conscious, vaguely vulnerable face, saying, “Because I’ve been a fish.” Startled and moved by the mystical answer, Li made no response.

  It began to rain. They turned toward home. Li’s dad said something about fishing, and Li’s mom said, “Why do you have to mix up everything with fishing?” and Li felt like they were in a Raymond Carver story about a quarrelsome couple.

  Li told his parents he’d recorded their walk. “I’ve written a lot about fighting,” he said. “I want to balance it with good things.”

  “So, today was good?” said Li’s mom.

  “Yes. I’ve recorded more than enough fighting already.”

  “Bickering.” Li’s mom corrected with a smile.

  Two minutes later, Li’s dad dropped Dudu while picking her up—she yelped loudly but seemed unhurt—and Li’s mom told Li about Dudu’s childhood trauma. When Dudu was one or two, Li’s dad had lifted her container without closing it. She’d fallen on her head and vomited.

  “But the worst was…,” said Li’s mom, and told of how, on their way to the States in 2008, they left a five-month-old Dudu in a cage outside a boarding kennel, which they hadn’t anticipated being closed in the morning. In the cab to the airport, they’d called Auntie, who’d found Dudu by following her continuous screams.

  Falling

  Four days later, they went to Fairy Story Organic Farm, a B & B in Yilan County. They put their luggage in their room and
went outside.

  Li’s dad stood in place talking on his phone. Dudu walked away with her tail down, then Li and his mom smelled what seemed to be pesticides. Walking away from the chemical scent, they reached a grade school’s outdoor area.

  Minutes later, Li noticed his mom looking at her phone in a Dad-like manner—stationary, facedown. He realized she rarely zoomed into photos of her face anymore. She seemed to have stopped the previous year, when his pain returned.

  That night, at dinner in a large room with one other table occupied, Li and his dad cooked meat and vegetables in a pot of simmering soup. Li’s mom fed lamb to Dudu. “Du likes to drink water after eating,” she said.

  Li, who was stoned, went to their room, got Dudu’s water, began a voice memo, returned to the table, and sat opposite Dudu, who was on her own chair between Li’s parents.

  “Is that good? Satisfied?” said Li’s mom to Dudu.

  “Tell her to obediently stay on the chair,” said a woman at the other table.

  “Du, you’re full,” said Li’s dad.

  “Hasn’t eaten any vegetables yet,” said Li about his dad.

  “At buffets, you can’t see green on his plate,” said Li’s mom.

  Li left for more mulberry sauce, returned grinning, and said he’d forgotten how to get someone’s attention in Mandarin so had tapped the counter and said, “Eh.”

  Li’s mom laughed.

  “How should I have said it? ‘Hello’?”

  “If not ‘hello,’ then ‘embarrassed,’ ” said Li’s mom. In Taiwan, “embarrassed”—“bù hǎo yìsi,” literally “not good meaning”—meant “excuse me.”

  Li’s mom said when she left Taiwan in the seventies, people had said “sorry” for “excuse me,” and that it had taken her a long time to learn to use “embarrassed.” She said people used to reply “don’t thank” to “thank you” but now they said “will not.”

  “People get it from TV,” said Li’s dad. “If the TV says something—”

  “He finally gets a vegetable,” said Li’s mom, laughing a little.

  “—if the TV says something, everybody starts saying it.”

  “It came from Taiwanese,” said Li’s mom.

  “Taiwanese,” agreed Li’s dad.

  Li’s mom explained that in Taiwanese when people said “thank you,” you replied “no need,” which translated in Mandarin to “will not,” as if to say, “You will not thank me.”

  Li asked what Dudu was doing.

  “Lying there,” said Li’s mom.

  After a while, Dudu was standing.

  “Tell her standing there is dangerous,” said Li’s dad. “She’s too close. The hot plate is too hot. Come here.”

  “Come,” said Li’s mom. “Come here.”

  Dudu fell on the floor.

  “Aiyo!” said Li’s mom in an anguished, disturbed voice.

  “Wah,” said Li’s dad, a noise of regret.

  Li laughed quietly.

  “Why did you…,” said Li’s mom, seeming to want to blame someone.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Li emphatically, worried about imminent bickering.

  “Child was standing on the edge,” said Li’s dad. “Slipped.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Li. “I laughed. Because I knew nothing would happen. She—”

  “She fell but has four legs to stand on,” said Li’s mom.

  “Right,” said Li. “She didn’t even yelp.”

  “She only went, Ng!—like that,” said Li’s mom.

  “Her four legs prop her up,” said Li’s dad, and got Dudu a wider chair.

  “She shouldn’t fall off that,” said Li.

  They ate quietly for a while.

  “When you were small, at Fat Uncle’s home, you fell off the sink,” said Li’s mom.

  “Who?” said Li.

  “You,” said Li’s mom.

  “Where?” said Li.

  “The sink in the bathroom at Fat Uncle’s home.”

  “Fell from where?” said Li’s dad.

  “Sink,” said Li’s mom.

  “When?” said Li.

  “When you were a baby,” said Li’s mom.

  Li laughed strangely, with air leaving his nose, then laughed more, causing his mom to laugh. “From sink…to where,” he said, glad he was amused. Part of him seemed to feel vaguely resentful, but it was a small part that felt automatic and fleeting.

  “Fell while bathing?” said Li’s dad.

  “Not bathing. Cleaning…his butt, or something.”

  “Didn’t hold him well, huh?” said Li’s dad. “What was the floor?”

  “Fell from the top to the floor,” said Li.

  “Did he cry?” said Li’s dad.

  “Of course he cried. How would he not cry?”

  “Didn’t hit his head, right?” said Li’s dad.

  “What hit what?” said Li.

  Li’s mom made a small, withdrawn noise. “The floor was very hard,” she said.

  “Tile?” said Li.

  “Ng,” confirmed Li’s mom.

  “Ng,” said Li, looking down.

  “Hadn’t known how to take care of a child yet,” said Li’s dad.

  “It’s good nothing happened,” said Li’s mom.

  “Not too knowledgeable about taking care of a child,” said Li’s dad.

  “At least I took care of him,” said Li’s mom.

  “Can’t let him stand on the sink—it’s slippery,” said Li’s dad.

  “Feet very slippery,” said Li’s mom.

  “How old was I?” said Li.

  “You were a baby,” said Li’s mom.

  “Fell from so high,” said Li’s dad.

  “Like one?” said Li.

  “Around that,” said Li’s mom.

  Li’s dad mumbled something that was inaudible in the recording, in which he sounded muffled and distant because he was the farthest from Li’s phone.

  “At least I took care of them,” said Li’s mom. “Right?” she said to Li.

  “Right,” said Li. “If Dad had taken care of me, he also would’ve done something to me,” he said, and laughed.

  “Because he never took care, he never had accidents,” said Li’s mom.

  “Regardless of who is caretaking, there will always be mistakes,” said Li.

  “The Greatest Love of All,” sung by Whitney Houston, was playing in the room.

  “Taking care of Du, you dropped her twice,” said Li’s mom. “And I don’t talk about it.”

  “It’s just that everyone will make mistakes,” said Li.

  “Right,” said Li’s mom.

  “If you want to be productive, you need to try to forgive,” said Li.

  “When Dad does anything, I don’t keep talking about it,” said Li’s mom as Li’s dad, looking at Li, said, “Once, we were going somewhere. From her container, she fell out.”

  “Right, and I don’t talk about that,” said Li’s mom.

  “We dropped you when you were so small,” said Li’s dad to Dudu.

  “Dad dropped.” Li’s mom corrected.

  “Everyone will—” said Li.

  “Accidentally,” said Li’s mom. “It’s not like…”

  “If I took care of someone, I’d also drop them,” said Li.

  “The most important thing is that nothing happened,” said Li’s mom, which somewhat amused Li because part of him was viewing the fall as possibly another factor, among thousands, in his various problems.

  “Four-leg dog,” sang Li’s dad. “Animals are very smart. Use their legs when they fall.”

  “Lamb tastes better, right?” said Li’s mom to Dudu, who ate chicken at home. “In the future, Du will bicker with us about wanting
to come stay here.”

  “She has wolf genes,” said Li’s dad. “Right?”

  “Hm?” said Li.

  “DNA is wolf,” said Li’s dad. “When she smells lamb: ‘Ayooo!’ ”

  Li’s mom had fallen down stairs when she was seven, hitting her head on a lead bucket, Li knew. Her four-foot-nine mom had carried her a mile to a doctor, who’d sewn a flap of her forehead back on. She’d stayed home a month; sometimes the house had seemed to spin. Fearing brain damage, her mom had fed her pig brains and bone marrow.

  “This food has no flavor,” said Li’s dad.

  “It has flavor,” said Li. “This sauce has no flavor to you, because normally you eat artificial flavor. So this food really has no flavor for Dad. This makes sense, right?”

  “Right,” said Li’s mom. “Look, I ate all my vegetables.”

  “I didn’t eat my vegetables,” said Li’s dad. “Me and Du are animals. We eat meat.”

  “She likes meat more than you,” said Li. “You mostly like rice.”

  “We are animals,” said Li’s dad to Dudu.

  * * *

  —

  After dinner, they walked on a dark, narrow road, between fields of rice plants in shallow water.

  “Walking after eating, my blood sugar won’t rise as much,” said Li’s mom.

  “Right,” said Li. “Because. Because…”

  “Why?” said Li’s mom.

  “Because when you’re moving, your body will use more sugar.”

  “There was a big dog earlier, who Du scared,” said Li’s mom.

  “Why do you tohk others?” said Li’s dad to Dudu. “On others’ land. Still wants to tohk others.”

  “She doesn’t respect others,” said Li’s mom.

  “The big dog was frightened,” said Li’s dad.

  “How do you say that in English?” said Li’s mom.

  “Look down,” said Li’s dad.

  “This,” said Li’s mom, miming a snapping motion with her hand.

  “Snap,” said Li.

  “Snap,” said Li’s mom.

  “Snack,” said Li’s dad.

  “Snapped at,” said Li.

  “In Taiwanese, it’s ‘tohk’!” said Li’s dad. “Tohk-tohk-tohk.”

  Li’s mom laughed quietly and cheerfully.