Confucius Jane (12 page)

“Confucius Plaza. It's a housing complex, built by the city. In the seventies, I think.” Jane tapped Min on the shoulder as they began to cross. “Let's stop by the statue.”

“But I'm hungry,” she wheedled.

“Just for a second. It's practically on our way.”

Sutton was about to ask what statue they were referring to, when she caught sight of the bronze figure atop a green marble base. “Is that Confucius?”

“Sure is.”

As they approached, Sutton saw that the base was engraved with words in both Chinese and English. She and Jane paused directly in front of it, while Min stood off to the side, arms crossed over her chest, looking bored.

“Sue says that tracing the characters of his name is supposed to bring you luck.” Jane stretched out her left hand and ran her index and middle fingers along the grooves of the golden-hued strokes. It was a surprisingly sensual act, and Sutton swallowed hard as she tried to banish the mental image of Jane's hands tracing her own lines and curves.

“Want to give it a go?” Jane asked, looking over her shoulder.

For a moment, Sutton thought Jane was reading her mind, and the sudden flood of heat beneath her skin made her body's wishes perfectly clear. But that was a purely physical response—driven by hormones, an instinctual drive to mate, and the as yet-to-be understood chemical mechanism behind attraction. Maybe she should forget surgery and stem cells and start researching pheromones instead.

“I could definitely use some luck,” she said, stepping forward to touch the stone. It was cold beneath her fingertips, and as she followed the sharp angles of the characters, she marveled at how many ways humanity had found to express itself. This inscription was wholly exotic to her, but intelligible to most of the people who lived nearby. Even gibberish was just a matter of perspective.

“How do I know if it worked?” she asked as she moved back.

“Wait and see if you get lucky.” Jane tried to deadpan, but the twitching corners of her mouth gave her away.

“Very funny.” Sutton hoped her eye-roll seemed decisive. “I walked right into that, didn't I?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Jane extended her hand, then let it fall just as quickly. “Shall we?”

“Thank God,” Min said as they rejoined her at the corner. “I'm frozen and starving.”

“This is nothing. Try Sweden in the winter.”

“Is she always this insufferable?” Sutton asked Min as they halted beneath a red awning.

“It's usually worse. I think she's trying to be good right now.”

“Would you two like to eat?” Jane asked as she pushed open the door. “Or do you just want to stand around out here giving me a hard time?”

The blast of warm air was comforting, and Sutton quickly stepped inside. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she looked around in confusion. There was no restaurant to be found—only a small atrium facing a bank of elevators. Sutton watched as Jane approached a woman in black pants, a white shirt, and a burgundy vest carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset. After a moment, Jane beckoned them forward.

“Third floor.”

“How many are there?” Sutton asked as they waited for an elevator.

“Five. Sometimes, people will rent an entire floor for a private party.”

When the doors opened, they followed a young family with two small children inside. Min said something to the little girl in Chinese that earned her a shy smile and an indulgent look from the mother. Sutton leaned close to Jane and opened her mouth to speak, only to find herself momentarily distracted by the scent of Ivory soap and a hint of cinnamon.

“What did Min say?” she whispered.

“She told the girl she had pretty hair.” Jane raised her hand to gently rub a strand of Sutton's hair between her thumb and index finger. “So do you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Sutton warned.

Jane lowered her hand. “What about honesty?”

The doors chimed as they opened, and Sutton turned to exit, glad she had an excuse not to answer. Honesty would only get her into trouble. She followed Min, who approached a man dressed identically to the woman downstairs. He guided them to a table, set down a piece of paper that vaguely resembled a golfing scorecard, and left.

Each chair was ensconced in a gold embroidered cover, and the white tablecloth hung almost to the ground. As Sutton sank into the seat next to Min, she stared around the large, rectangular room in rapt fascination. Its décor was a visual cacophony. The wall nearest to their table was covered in upholstery, while the others were paneled with brick and faux marble in turn. Flat-screen televisions hung at each corner, tuned to CNN. At the far end of the room, red-and-gold curtains framed a low stage. Two large, golden shapes emerged from the wall behind it in bas relief. One she clearly recognized as a dragon, and as she watched, its red eyes blinked rhythmically at her. The other creature was some sort of bird, its green eyes blinking in counterpoint.

“What is that?”

“A phoenix,” Jane said. “The dragon and the phoenix are another way of expressing yin and yang.”

“Yin and yang.” Sutton could picture the symbols, but she only had a vague notion of what they meant. “They represent opposites attracting, right?”

“It's a little more complicated than that.” Jane unwrapped her chopsticks as she spoke. “Yin and yang are complementary forces. At first glance they seem contradictory, but each needs the other in order to work.”

“Interesting.” As Sutton unfolded her napkin, a man dressed all in black placed a teapot in the center of the table and began to fill their glasses with water. “Kind of sad that America boils that down to ‘opposites attract.'”

“We're a young culture.” Jane turned over the small porcelain teacups and filled Sutton's first, followed by Min's and then her own. “Everything's still black and white to us.”

Before Sutton could reply, a metal cart rolled up to the table, pushed by a middle-aged woman wearing a white apron. Immediately, Min spun in her chair and struck up a conversation in rapid Chinese. On the side of the cart, a large, laminated poster displayed several different kinds of dishes, and Sutton peered at them closely, trying to make out familiar ingredients. When Min asked a question, the woman raised the lid on one of the perfectly round bamboo containers stacked inside the cart. Min nodded, and the woman placed it on their table, stamped the card, and moved on.

Min uncovered the dish with a flourish. “Chicken feet!”

Sutton blinked at the sight of a pile of golden-brown, fried chicken claws covered with a sauce that contained scallions and what looked like red pepper. As she sat staring, Min leaned forward, grabbed one with her chopsticks, and popped it into her mouth. Sutton glanced over at Jane, who was looking between her and the food and visibly cringing. Sutton squared her shoulders as her pride kicked in. Did Jane think she was that much of a baby?

“I said I'd try anything once, and I meant it.” Awkwardly, she hefted her chopsticks. “How does one eat these?”

“You eat it like … like if you ate a spare rib by putting the whole bone in your mouth. You sort of, um, suck the skin off and then spit out the bone.”

Jane's discomfort was proving more entertaining by the second. Determined to keep a straight face, Sutton watched as Min held her chopsticks up to her pursed lips and deftly grabbed the partially masticated foot. She set it on the overturned lid and went back for seconds.

“Lovely.” Sutton was torn between faint disgust and amusement as she imagined what her mother would think of this meal.

Jane put her hand on Sutton's shoulder. Immediately, the heat of her palm soaked through the thin wool of Sutton's sweater, and it took a supreme effort of will not to betray her pleasure at the sensation.

“You really don't have to.” Jane's voice broke the spell that her touch had woven. “We're going to order a lot of other things, okay?”

Sutton seized one of the feet and ate it, just so she wouldn't have to try to formulate words. Thankfully, the distraction worked. As she gingerly bit down, the sauce coated her tongue. It was delicious—sweet and tangy with just the tiniest hint of spice. She didn't much care for the rather gristly texture of the foot, though, and after a few moments, she awkwardly mimicked Min's extraction of the bone.

“What did you think?” Jane asked.

“Honestly, it's not really my thing. But I did enjoy the sauce.”

Relief crossed Jane's face, but as she opened her mouth to reply, another bamboo container appeared next to the chicken feet. This one held a small mound of white, rubbery-looking strips. One side was smooth, while the other looked almost honeycombed.

“Tripe!” Min announced cheerfully as she reached for one.

Jane promptly buried her face in her hands. “C'mon, Min,” she groaned. “Throw me a bone, here.”

“A chicken toe bone?” Min asked around her mouthful, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“What is tripe?”

“Sheep stomach.” Jane fixed Min with a glare. “You are the worst. Flag down some
shu mai,
will you?”

Min swallowed, then sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. You're no fun.”

“Are you kidding? I'm a barrel of laughs. I'd just like Sutton to be able to eat, so she'll want to hang out with us again.”

“Relax. I'm having a great time.” Sutton couldn't seem to stop herself from lightly brushing Jane's forearm with her fingers. The swift shiver she got in response gave her a rush of confidence. Steeling herself, she raised a piece of the tripe to her lips.

It tasted like soy sauce and garlic, which was fine, but when she bit down it was even more rubbery than she'd expected. After trying to chew it for several seconds, she swallowed hard and reached for her teacup. As the soothing scent of chrysanthemum washed over her, she sat back in her chair. “All right, what's next?”

Jane shook her head in clear admiration. “You are amazing.”

Sutton hoped she couldn't be blamed for feeling a bit smug. “You have no idea.”

Jane's eyes went wide, a swirl of green and gold materializing in their depths. Mesmerized, Sutton leaned in closer, transfixed by the desire writ plainly across Jane's features. It was addicting to know she could affect her so strongly, and for a long moment, the clatter of plates and buzz of nearby conversations faded away entirely.

“Are you happy now?”

Min's question shattered the tension. Sutton blinked and turned her head toward where another of the servers was depositing several containers full of dumplings onto the table. Immediately, her mouth began to water. This was much more her speed.

“Good work, kiddo.” Jane gestured at the various dishes. “Shrimp and pork
shu mai
. And those are steamed pork buns. Mei makes a roasted version that's pretty similar.”

They all dug in with gusto, and for several minutes, there was no conversation at all aside from the occasional comment about the quality of the food. Whenever another cart rolled around, Min added a dish to the mix: a plate of steaming oysters, a bowl of fragrant Chinese broccoli, a bamboo box filled with sticky rice cakes.

“We had these on New Year's,” Sutton said as she helped herself. “They're supposed to be lucky, aren't they?

“
Nian gao.
And yes.” Jane set down her chopsticks and looked at her intently. “When we were at Confucius Plaza, you said you could use some luck. What did you mean?”

Sutton was impressed that Jane had been paying such close attention, but she tried to wave the question aside. “I've had plenty of luck already.”

“There's no quota. Are you worried about your residency? You'll find out where you're matched in a few weeks, right?”

“Oh? Have you been doing some research?”

To Sutton's delight, Jane actually squirmed in her chair. “I might have looked up how it all works. You get matched with a program on March fifteenth?”

“That's right.” Sutton nibbled at one corner of her rice cake. “This may sound arrogant, but I'm not that worried about matching. I had some good interviews, and I think I'll do fine.”

“What are you worried about, then?”

Sutton lay down her chopsticks and leaned back in her chair, uncertain as to how much she should say. No one knew everything—her father had no idea about the fellowship opportunities she'd applied for abroad, and Dr. Buehler knew nothing of her mother's condition. But it was safe to talk to Jane, wasn't it? Jane didn't know any of her friends or colleagues. She lived in a world that practically never intersected with her own.

“You can trust me,” Jane said. “Min, too. Right, Min?”

“Sure.”

Sutton doubted Min was even listening. She had her phone out and was playing some sort of game that seemed to involve exploding virtual candy pieces.

“I enjoyed the research for my thesis,” Sutton began, “though the process of writing it up was a real challenge. But last year, I started to get interested in another topic when I read several studies—mostly coming out of Europe—in which stem cells were used to treat certain kinds of neurological disorders. My mother was diagnosed with MS a few years ago, and I think that made me especially intrigued.”

“I've heard the name,” Jane said, “but I'm ashamed to say I don't know what MS really is.”

“It stands for multiple sclerosis, which is an autoimmune disease in which the body attacks the protective coverings around the neurons. Lesions form on parts of the brain and can affect coordination, balance, eyesight—pretty much anything.”

“I'm sorry for your mother,” Jane said. She reached out to lightly touch Sutton's hand. “That must be difficult to live with.”

Sutton felt the strongest urge to intertwine their fingers, but before she could make any move, Jane had withdrawn. Probably for the best.