The Kitchen God's Wife Part 5

That Sunday, when he and his wife visited our church, we were all standing in the hot morning sun. Everyone was curious about them, the doctor, his high-cla.s.s wife. Jimmy and I were at the bottom of the church steps, greeting everybody. My husband was speaking in English, the common language among all the different Chinese dialects of our church: "Pleased to see you, pleased to meet you, please come again." Over and over he said those words, all those phrases I practiced at night but still could not say. So I would only nod and smile, pretending to be shy. Every Sunday was the same way. Only, that Sunday turned out to be very hot, and I could not take off my sweater because a little moth had eaten a hole in the right shoulder of my dress.

I nodded to the doctor and his wife. And after they stepped away, I saw other church people moving over to the Lins and introducing themselves: "Gladys Wong," "Mavis Chew," "George Po," "Murray Yang," "Irene Wing"-all of them saying just their names, too shy, I thought, to say more than two words to a big, important doctor.

I was thinking about these little things, not really thinking, just letting words float in and out of my mind, because I was sleepy. My mouth felt heavy, my face hot and itchy. As I scratched at my cheek, the doctor saw me and scratched his neck, nodded and laughed, then said to me, "Ding-ngin. Itchy.

When he said that word, ding-ngin, I felt as if I were dreaming. How strange, I thought, he knows that same local island expression from my childhood. And then I was remembering that time when I first heard that expression.

I was six and it was the first summer after my father had sent me to live on the island. Day and night, little invisible fleas bit me all over my tender thighs. And soon I was in terrible misery: scratching, scratching, not able to stop even one second. Both hands moved quickly up and down my legs, and I cried in front of everyone, "Yangsele!" which in common Mandarin means "itching to death!"

Everyone roared with laughter, and Old Aunt quickly slapped my hands to make me stop. "How can you say this!" The next day an older cousin told me that local island people say ding-ngin when they want to talk about itching, and that yangsele means something completely different. I did not know how different until more than ten years later, on the night before my wedding to the wrong man. That's when I heard my boy cousins whispering to one another: "Yangsele! She's itching for s.e.x. Her bottom can't wait to be stung by a man."

That hot day at the church in Fresno, when I heard this word ding-ngin again, I remembered how innocent I once was. And then I came out of that memory, and I felt my face burning, from anger, from shame, I didn't know which. The more I thought about that memory, the more feverish my mind and body became.

And then Dr. Lin was touching my elbow, asking me, "Are you ill?"

I could not answer him, only watch his face: the way he squeezed his eyebrows up, then jerked his chin twice, letting me know he was anxious to hear my answer. His face!-that squeezing-jerking expression on Lin's face was the same one that the Lin father had, that everybody in that family had, an expression Old Aunt once described as "that Lin long-face look, like a horse nudging you for sweets in your pocket."

Seeing that same face on Lin made me think everything had melted together-my past, my life today, my first husband, my second husband, Lin. That's how confused I was. So I did not know who was shouting, "Heat stroke! Poisoned by too much sun." I did not know why they were taking off my sweater, lifting me up, and carrying me inside the church.

My husband later told me, as I lay wet in his arms, that he had once baptized me to save my soul. And now, he said, both laughing and crying, the doctor had baptized me to save my life. I was still confused, so I could only murmur a bad excuse, "I thought I saw a ghost."

And then I realized we were not alone. Lin was there, his wife, other people from the church-everyone watching me! Right away my senses came back. I was embarra.s.sed, knowing everyone had seen me in that dress with a big hole eaten away by a moth.

I never told Jimmy, That man Lin was the one I could have married instead of marrying that other man first, then you second.

I only told him about that "itchy" word, the language Lin and I shared from long time ago. So of course, Jimmy was proud to inform Lin the next Sunday that I was from the same place in China, the one on Tsungming Island, the place we called the Mouth of the River. I wanted to claim back my husband's words, to explain that I was perhaps mistaken, that it was another island. Because I thought Lin would say in front of everyone, "Hey, aren't you that girl who refused my family?"

But Lin only smiled and said, "We're both from a long time ago, eh, little sister?"

Maybe he was being polite. He had very good manners. Or maybe he never wanted to marry me either. His wife was very beautiful. Or maybe he was not the Lin boy I was supposed to marry. After all, I had heard there were other sons in that family. I never found out. I was scared to find out. What would I gain by knowing this?

So I did not ask further questions. Still, from that day on, I began to look at everything in my life two ways, the way it happened, the way it did not.

Late at night, when my husband and children were sleeping, I would think to myself, Of course, I do not regret marrying Jimmy Louie. I love my husband. I waited five years to marry him. I came to this country to live with him. I was willing, more than willing. It was a true love, not just the devotion that comes from feeding a husband and raising his children. I was not thinking about Lin, his wife's pretty clothes, or their swimming pool. Who wants those things? I said to myself.

But then later and later at night, I thought about it this way: How I was sorry I did not marry Lin. Because if I had, I would not have married that other man. I would not have become the kind of wife who prayed the j.a.panese would kill her husband. I would not have become the kind of mother who could not grieve when her children died. I would not have poisoned my mind thinking of ways to escape my marriage, only to bite my flesh every day that I did not. And I would not have regretted that I had so little left to give my second husband and that I could be only grateful, never completely happy.

After Jimmy died, I could not help myself from thinking, If I had married Lin, I would not have met Jimmy Louie, married him, now be always missing him. My eyes and ears would not be always searching for Jimmy, searching for nothing, my skin waiting to be touched by no one. I would not be feeling this kind of pain that has no cure. If I had married Lin, I would not even know Jimmy. And then I would not be always missing someone whose name I did not even know.

And now, just recently, I have been thinking about this again. If I had married Lin, I would still be married to Lin. Helen would not know my worst secrets. And I would have no reason to let her boss me around. I know this, because Helen told me last night, during that fish dinner, that a man named Lin, a widower who used to live in Fresno, just joined our church in San Francisco.

"He's a doctor," she said, "but he only put a five-dollar bill in the offering tray."

And Helen, who saw my astonished face and thinks she knows everything, said to me, "Yes, can you imagine? What kind of man is that?"

I didn't say to Helen: I could have married that man, a good man. I didn't say, Was it fate that I did not? Or was it because I didn't know I had a choice? And I didn't admit to her: Maybe I made a mistake, such a simple mistake, saying no to one, yes to another, like choosing fish in a tank. How can you know which one is good, which is bad, until you have tasted it?

Even if I told her, she wouldn't understand. Our thinking is too different. Her head is still back in China. It's like this: When she bought that fish for dinner, I said to her, "Ai, do you know what happens when fish are three days old?"

And right away she said, "They swim out to sea."

For nearly forty years, I have told people Helen is my sister-in-law. But she is not.

I have told people she is the wife of my brother, Kun, the one who was killed during the war. This is not the truth.

But I did not say this to deceive anyone. The truth was too complicated to tell. No one would understand even if I could explain it all.

That brother I said was killed? In truth, he was only my half brother-related not even by blood, just by marriage. He was the son of my father's second wife, the one who died before my mother took her place. So we were never close with that part of the family.

And this half brother Kun did not die in the war. He died before the war, his head chopped off in Changsha for selling three bolts of cloth to the revolutionaries. This was in 4638 by the Chinese calendar, a Horse year, when people stamped their feet and became reckless. By the Western calendar, I don't know. Maybe it was 1929, maybe 1930 or 1931, in any case, before I met Helen.

But if I said these things, then I would have to explain that my half brother was not really a revolutionary. That in truth, he protested-with angry foot-stomping at first, then finally desperate cries on his knees-telling them he did not know his late-night customers were revolutionaries, bragging that he cheated them by charging them a ridiculously high price, laughing that the cloth was of poor quality. The Kuomintang killed him anyway, as a lesson that others could profit by.

But how could I ever reveal this?-that a member of my family meant to cheat his customers. No, all I could say was, Many people were being killed at that time, for any little thing. No one needs to know that we all saw the danger, that my half brother was being foolishly greedy.

Even his real wife thought this. She never wanted to go to Changsha in the first place. But if somebody asked me where she is, I couldn't say. After her husband died, she wrote and told us what had happened. But after that we heard no more about her, only that there was a flood where she lived and so many bloated bodies that people along the sh.o.r.e had to flee inland to escape the stink. So maybe that sister-in-law also drowned and floated down the river and out to sea. Or perhaps she changed her name, maybe even changed her mind and became a Communist, and today is living somewhere in China with a different name.

If I said all this, people might think that was the end of the story of my half brother. And I would have to lie to agree: He is dead. His real wife is gone. There's no more to the story, no surprise happy ending. And for several years that truly was the end of him.

Oh, sometimes within our family we told a tale about a bull howling at the crescent moon, thinking it was his own horn caught up there. And everyone knew who we were talking about: the fool who climbed all the way up to the sky, thinking he could pluck down a star, only to fall and leave behind his life. We did not mention Kun's name. It was dangerous to know anyone who had rubbed shoulders with the Marxists. It didn't matter that Kun was already dead and not really even a revolutionary.

But then my half brother went on to have many other lives. When the j.a.panese took over Shanghai in 1937, my uncle pretended to welcome them to his textile shop. "My own nephew was educated in j.a.pan, now lives in Changsha, married to a j.a.panese girl."

And then my half brother took on another life. When the j.a.panese lost in 1945 and the Kuomintang came back, my uncle said, "My poor nephew, Kun, he was a Kuomintang hero. Died in Changsha."

And when the Communists took over in 1949, the first story came back. Only by then Uncle was dead. So it was Old Aunt who said that my half brother Kun was a big revolutionary hero! "Gave good-quality cloth to the underground students-at no cost, of course, except to his own life."

When I came to this new country, I thought I could finally forget about this half brother Kun, who had died so many times, in so many ways. It was too confusing to explain over and over again: who was related to whom, which half brother by which marriage, what year this happened according to the Chinese or the Western calendar, what happened to that sister-in-law, why we changed our minds so often about the j.a.panese, the Kuomintang, and the Communists.

How could I explain such a story to the immigration authorities. They wouldn't understand! They knew only one kind of government. They were always asking me all kinds of confusing questions: "Why does it say you are born in 1918 on this paper and 1919 on this one?" "Why do you have no papers for marriage, no papers for divorce?" "Did you contract worms in China or in another country?"

When I came to this country, I told myself: I can think a new way. Now I can forget my tragedies, put all my secrets behind a door that will never be opened, never seen by American eyes. I was thinking my past was closed forever and all I had to remember was to call Formosa "China," to shrink all of China into one little island I had never seen before.

I was thinking, n.o.body can chase me here. I could hide mistakes, my regrets, all my sorrows. I could change my fate.

Oh, I was not the only one who put away old things to suit new circ.u.mstances. People from our church, that schoolmate with the pock-mark face, Lin and his wife, even Helen-they all left something behind. Old debts and bad beginnings. Elderly mothers and sick fathers, arranged first wives and too many children, superst.i.tions and Chinese calendar destinies.

Even I was scared my old life would catch up with me. But then China turned off the light, closed the door, told everyone to be quiet. All those people there became like ghosts. We could not see them. We could not hear them. So I thought I really could forget everything. n.o.body could get out to remind me.

But then Helen wanted to come from Formosa. I had to let her come. She told me I had a debt from many years before, now I had to pay her back. So I told the U.S. immigration officials in 1953 that Helen was my sister, born to one of my father's other five wives. And once she was here, I couldn't tell our church friends that my father had five wives. How could I say that? I was the wife of a minister.

So I said that Helen was my sister-in-law from long time ago, once married to my brother Kun, a big Kuomintang hero who died during the war. Too bad.

I could not use the real story why Helen should come here, why I had to sponsor her. That was even more complicated to explain.

I have told this story about Helen being married to my brother so many times even Helen believes it now. She tells people who ask about those old days: "Oh, I had a big, big Western wedding. Winnie was my maid of honor. Too bad he died so young." She says this even though she has been a citizen for many years and n.o.body can send her back.

And Helen has told stories about me, so many times, I sometimes believe they are true. That Jimmy was my first and only husband. That she introduced him to me in Shanghai. She was a witness at my wedding, a big, big Chinese wedding.

No one would believe me now if I said Helen is not my sister-in-law. She is not related by blood, not even by marriage. She is not someone I chose as my friend. Sometimes I do not even enjoy her company. I do not agree with her opinions. I do not admire her character. And yet we are closer perhaps than sisters, related by fate, joined by debts. I have kept her secrets. She has kept mine. And we have a kind of loyalty that has no word in this country.

So you can imagine my anger when Helen told me in her kitchen, right after that fish dinner, that she has decided to let all my secrets out.

4.

LONG, LONG DISTANCE.

Here is how she told me.

After that fish dinner, Henry went into the living room to watch TV and sleep on the sofa. Helen was still in the kitchen, cooking water for tea. And I was sitting in the dining room. Actually, it is not really a dining room, but part of the kitchen, separated by a thin plastic screen. But because Helen could not see me, she was shouting, as if she were calling long-distance, bragging about her Bao-bao getting married in three weeks.

Bao-bao this, and Bao-bao that, was what she was saying. She sounded just like those TV shows that brag, Win this, win that, every week the same thing.

Her son is thirty-one years old and she still calls him baby. But maybe Helen is right. Her Bao-bao is still a baby, so spoiled and impatient he can't even wait for a bus. One time his car was broken down, and he called me, so nice and polite: "Oh, Auntie, I haven't seen you for a long time. Oh, Auntie, how is your health? Good, good. Oh, Auntie, please let me borrow your car for an important job interview."

When he returned my car three days later, I saw his character scattered inside and out-a b.u.mp on my b.u.mper, Coca-Cola cans on the floor, no gas. And he didn't even get that job.

So I wasn't listening to Helen praising Bao-bao. I was remembering how mad I was about my car. And because I had never complained, remembering made me mad all over again. I was thinking, My son, he isn't like that. Samuel does not say polite words as an excuse to borrow something. And he doesn't have to borrow Helen's car to go for an interview. He already has a good job, in New Jersey, a senior benefits administrator, a.n.a.lyzing sick leave, sick pay, who is really sick, who is only fooling around.

Helen came in the room with our tea, still talking loud as if I were far away. Now she was talking about Mary. "Did I tell you? Mary called me a few days ago, told me she and Doug are going to Hawaii-again! This is already their fourth time. I said, 'You already saw it. You don't need to go again.' And she said, 'n.o.body goes to Hawaii because they need to. You go because you don't need to.' "

Helen gave me my tea. "I told my daughter, 'What kind of thinking is this? I don't need to go to Hawaii, I don't go. I want to go to China, I also don't go!' " Helen laughed to herself. "That daughter of mine!" she said. "Oh! Did I tell you? She called me again, late last night, after ten." Helen waved her hands, so disgusted. "Scared me to death almost! I said to her, 'What's wrong? Someone is sick? Car accident? Doug lost his job?' And she said, 'No, no, no. I just wanted to call.' " Helen smiled. "What do you think? Why did she call? Tell me."

"She is a good daughter," I said.

Helen shook her head, "This time she said she was calling for no reason. No reason! This is not a reason to call."

Helen poured me more tea. "Of course, it wasn't her idea, not entirely. She saw a TV commercial for a phone company, a daughter calling a mother for no reason. I said to my daughter, 'Now you're calling long-distance, no reason? Don't talk too long, then, too expensive.' And she said, 'It's okay. After eight o'clock, it's cheaper.'

"So I told her, 'Don't be fooled. They say all kinds of lies on television. Maybe it's only cheaper if you talk faster. Who knows what their meaning is.'

"She said, 'Oh, Mommy, the cost doesn't matter.'

"I said, 'Wah! Doesn't matter? How can you say cost doesn't matter? You want to waste ten dollars? Don't give it to the phone company, then. Send it to me instead.' "

In my mind, I could hear Helen arguing with her daughter, wasting money to argue about not wasting money. Helen doesn't have any sense.

Helen sighed. "Finally I convinced her, and she hung up." She looked at me, smiled real big, and went back to speaking Chinese. "See, she still listens to me. She knows her mother is still right." She took a noisy sip of tea. "So, have you heard from Pearl this week? Does she call and waste long-distance money, too?"

When Helen asked me that, I knew she was not looking for an answer. She knows my daughter and I do not talk too often. Pearl does not call me for no reason. Of course, she calls me to say she is bringing Tessa and Cleo for baby-sitting. She calls me to say, Can you bring the Chinese stuffing for Thanksgiving? And she calls to warn me. Last week, for example, she called me to say she and her family could not stay overnight at my house. Actually, she did not call me herself, her husband called. But I knew she told him to call. I knew she was listening on the other line.

"Pearl doesn't live long distance," I reminded Helen.

"San Jose is still long-distance," she argued. "Fifty miles away. Different area code."

"But she is not long, long distance," I said.

Helen would not give up. "Long-distance enough! You still have to pay extra every minute. You still can't talk too much."

"Maybe we should not talk too much either," I said. "Henry is asleep." And I pointed to her tired husband, lying on the sofa, his mouth wide open. "Maybe I better go home."

"Henry, get up!" Helen shouted, and then pushed her husband's shoulder, until one frowning eye popped open, then two feet were pushing along the floor, moving slowly to his bed.

After Henry left, Helen said to me, "So now maybe I have some good news to tell you." She smiled.

"What kind of good news?"

She smiled again. She sipped her tea. She took her Kleenex out of her sleeve and wiped her nose. She sipped her tea again and smiled again. Why does she make everything like a Buddhist ceremony?

"Now you no longer have to hide," she said at last.

"I am not hiding. I am here."

"No, no, all your life you have been hiding. Now you can come out." She jumped up and found her purse, a big bag, then dug her hand inside. I could tell she was in a big hurry to find something. She pulled out an orange and put that on the table, then two bags of airline peanuts, restaurant toothpicks, her extra wallet for tricking robbers. She turned the purse sideways and spilled out all sorts of other junk in case a war breaks out and we have to run away like the old days: two short candles, her American naturalization papers in a plastic pouch, her Chinese pa.s.sport from forty years ago, one small motel soap, one washcloth, one pair each of knee-high stockings and nylon panties, still brand-new. And then she pulled out more things: her pochai stomach pills, her potion for coughs, her tiger-bone pads for aches, her good-luck G.o.ddess of Mercy charm if her other remedies do not work.

"Where is it?" she said, sorting through everything over and over again, until she finally pulled out from a side pocket what she had been chasing for along the bottom of her purse. It was a letter, the kind that looks like a sheet of paper but when you fold it, it becomes an envelope, stamp and everything already on it. She waved it in her hand.

"It's in here," she said with a big proud look on her face. "That man!"

And then I became alarmed for Helen. Lately she has been acting senile. Lately she has been forgetting many things. Lately she does not make sense. Maybe it is because of that fall on her stairs two months ago, the one that now makes her think she is going to die.

"How can you put a man in an envelope?" I asked her carefully.

"What?"

"You said you put a man in the envelope."

"Anh! I didn't say this. I said my good news is in here. And my good news is this: That man is dead. Betty Wan from Hong Kong told me, here in this letter. She went to Shanghai recently. You remember her. 'Beautiful Betty,' we called her during wartime. Although maybe she's not so beautiful anymore." Helen laughed. "Do you remember that sewing machine I gave her? She made a good business for herself later on, now owns a clothing shop in Kowloon."

Lately Helen's mind wanders everywhere, like a cow following gra.s.s wherever its mouth goes.

"It was a jewelry store she started," I reminded her. "A store in Kowloon, in the Amba.s.sador Hotel arcade."

Helen shook her head. "A clothing shop," she said. "Ladies' things, all discount." I did not argue. I did not tell her how she always remembers things wrong, always better than what really happened. She does not remember: I was the one who gave Beautiful Betty the sewing machine.

"What man is dead?" I finally asked, pointing to the letter.

"Oh, yes, that man." And then she sighed, pretended she was exasperated with me. "That man, that man. You know the one. How can you not guess?" And then she leaned over and whispered: "That bad man."

My breath stopped. I could see him, that bad man, Wen Fu, my first husband, the one I told Helen to never mention: "Never say his name, never tell anyone."

I could see his thick hair, his tricky eyebrows, his smooth, lying face, his clever mouth. I had not seen him for over forty years. And now, just to hear Helen mention his name, I could feel his breath on my neck, remember him laughing and telling me he had finally found me and would drag me back, no choice.