Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) (12 page)

I finally promised him I'd come. I told my parents that the Red Cross Club was having a Valentine's Day gathering at the soda fountain at Cooper's Drugs. It definitely sounded strange, but also social and safe and
American
.

Only Ralph knows what I am really doing—going to the House of Chow, something social and safe and
Chinese.
Thank God he isn't bugging me to come. He's got a date with his candy hearts.

*  *  *

Early Wednesday evening Mother is all girdled in and made up—painted rosy red with dark undertones. She drops her fancy gold compact and lipstick into her beaded purse as Dad escorts her to the car. He has stuffed a red handkerchief in his suit coat pocket.

I race up to the bathroom, stare in the mirror, and splash my face, which is light tannish with pink undertones. In a minute I am on the streetcar headed to the House of Chow.

Auntie Chow waves a meat cleaver in greeting. I hurry past a big bowl of chocolate marshmallow hearts wrapped in red foil. Mr. Howard gives me a quick tour. This exotic kitchen is on a different planet from the Firestone kitchen,
with its offerings of watery canned pears served at room temperature and suffocated lima beans. My mother uses a recipe for everything, even ice cubes. This kitchen is
alive
with plucked chickens and gutted fish on huge chopping blocks made from slices of tree trunk. The surfaces are infinite crosscuts. Mrs. Chow pours boiling tea over one to clean it after filleting a fish. “Oolong best,” she says, her glasses fogged. She guides me around baskets of seaweed, racks of stockpots, strainers, knives, and whisks. Rounded cooking pans called “woks” balance over the burners on collars called “rings of fire.” The kitchen is a controlled explosion, like an art room for food—cluttered and creative. No wonder Mr. Howard likes it.

“No Minute Rice here. No bleach!” Auntie Chow says this at honking-goose volume while standing over the rice cooker. She sticks out her tongue. “American Chinese food different than Chinese Chinese. American like fragrant and predictable. Real Chinese
pungent 
! Fried oyster pancake, coriander, chive, garlic, ginger pull out tear and joy.”

Auntie Chow's face is pungent—etched by steam and onions and garlic sizzled in hot chili oil.

My job is to fill bud vases with water and artfully insert a trimmed, golden chrysanthemum. The mums are pungent too, and gorgeous.

Shock of shocks, Elliot James walks in through the kitchen door off the alley. Alone. “Greetings, my man,” Mr. Howard
says, giving Elliot a tight little Chinese bow. Mr. Howard wears an apron and a flat, pleated chef's hat.

My man?

Elliot takes off his coat and scarf. Mrs. Chow stuffs a dumpling in his mouth. Mr. Chow claps him on the back. His wife brags about Elliot's calligraphy skills and lists the signs they need for tonight's buffet. Mrs. Chow pours a cup of plum wine for each of us and toasts, “Happy Valentine Day.” Her eyes shift from Elliot to me. “You two
sticky
?” she asks, raising her cup to us. Oh, my God. I shoot Mr. Howard a desperate look, but he just shrugs, drains his wine, and seasons his wok full of lotus root.

I steal a glance at Elliot, who is pushing up the sleeves of his wrinkled navy-blue shirt. The only part of us reacting to “sticky” is our hair. His is curling every which way in the steamy heat and mine has wilted straight as a broomstick.

Mrs. Chow stuffs more bites in our mouths. I try egg rolls and pot stickers with pork and plum sauce. This kitchen seems like the only island in the universe where different colors of people are
dancing
together—stirring, laughing, sniffing, chopping, sharing. And that's just in the kitchen!

The dining room fills up. Valentine's toasts float through the kitchen door. We run our legs off. Time races away. “I've got to go!” I tell Mr. Howard suddenly, dashing to get my coat. What I don't say is that I have to take
a shower and wash my hair, get rid of the
pungent
on me before my parents get home. Auntie Chow shoves a paper sack in my hand at the door. In it is a fish head—a dead-eyed, chopped-off fish head. “Old Chinese tradition for good luck! Prosperity!”

Oh yes, I will attract many Valentine's suitors with my guillotined carp head.

“Take home,” she insists. And I will, because it's the perfect Valentine for Ralph. I stand in the streetcar shelter. Mr. Chow stands under the front awning, waving four hundred thousand times.

But it's not the streetcar that stops. It's Elliot in his car. He leans across the seat, cranks the window down. “I'll take ya.”

I clutch my fish head. “B—but don't they need you in there?”

“I'll go back. Get in.”

So I do. His car smells like turpentine, which masks the dead carp. There are rags and tablets, and a big tackle box on the backseat. Not a good spot for the make-out session I had envisioned. I crack the window.

My voice sounds like a flock of birds has flown from my mouth. “I live off Oxford Road on . . .”

“I know,” Elliot says.

“Oh, of course, you brought my books over.”

Elliot punches the car radio. Every station is in the
“mood for romance”—Perry Como, Nat King Cole. No war news.

“Chinese . . . uh, calligraphy must take loads of practice,” I say.

“Yeah. I copy paintings at the museum,” he says. “The brushwork is amazing.” We sit at a stoplight. Anita and Steve and another couple stop right beside us. She looks over, superdazzled, as if she's witnessing a miracle.
Ha! Ha! HA!
Elliot doesn't notice. He just stares at the red light, then turns to me and says, “I like Chinese stuff.”

What?

Heatstroke.

Mind smoke.

I wrap my arms around my waist and stare at the baby-blue diaper pin that he uses for a key chain. The whole universe has caught fire at his use of the word “stuff.” Is he referring to paper umbrellas or soy sauce or humans?

“The Chows are gonna cater a big event there pretty soon,” Elliot says.

I turn and sputter, “A big event
where
?”

“At the
art
museum. They're dedicating the Buddhist temple. It's been redone. I'm gonna go.” All I can imagine is Mrs. Chow yakking so loud
The Thinker
will plug his ears.

As we pull up I check my parents' upstairs bedroom window. No light.
Thank you, God.
Elliot turns the car off, turns to me, runs his hand through his hair. But before
he can speak, I do. “Bye.” I yank the door handle—“Thanks”—hop out and race up the walk, picturing Dad's car wheeling up the driveway any second. I fumble with the house key and stop right inside the entry hall, my fist pressed against my lips. Chinese
stuff 
? I peek out the side window. His taillights flash.
Bye, Elliot. . . .
I hear him shifting gears: first, second . . .

I plod up to the bathroom and scrub myself into an all-American Minute Rice girl. Pungent gone. Flame doused.

Ralph is tickled pink with the fish head. Pigeon fuel. I almost have him convinced that they served bird's nest soup. “It's made from nests that flicker birds build in Chinese caves using their own spit. It dries hard as cement and then they boil it in soup.”

Ralph stuffs a handful of Neccos in his mouth. “Why don't they just have the birds spit in the soup pot?”

I climb into bed with a stomachache—oyster pancake and marshmallow heartburn. I mean, what else
would
I have? A headache?

A heartache?

We cannot stop listening. A rare moment of togetherness for the Firestones. The radio announcer sounds grave.
“Mind control” is being practiced by the Red Chinese in Korea. American POWs are exposed to torture, sleep deprivation, starvation, and harassment. In their weakened state they are fed Communist indoctrination. The advantage of their captors' position is repeated. Their brains are being programmed with enemy propaganda. The thought reform may be permanent. Only time will tell.

Yes, America, we have entered the era of
brainwashing
. Tomorrow night—Communist Chinese atrocities on the island of Formosa. U.S. protection proposed.

We don't say a word. Mother sits with her elbows on the table, her head in her hands, holding her brain so the commies won't get to it.

Dad's face says that the world has wobbled off its axis and rolled down the drain. He reaches over, pulls Mother's hand onto the table, and covers it with his.

All I can do is picture Neil Bradford's brother, Tom, suffering this very torture, this very minute. Can brainwashers really make people erase the past—their wives and their mothers and children and homes and dogs—and replace it with Communism?

What's next? Commies terrorizing America? A nightmare scene of bright red Communism soaking our cornfields, flowing down the Rocky Mountains, and staining the oceans comes to my mind, with good U.S. citizens clambering into bomb shelters with their pets and batteries.

*  *  *

On Sunday I head upstairs at the art museum. I need to see a shelf of nice, old, peaceful Chinese art, if they have such a thing. My stomach groans. I stifle a yawn, my legs stinging from three flights of stairs. I catch my breath. The air smells old and polished by time. There's something familiar about it.

I look around. They don't have just a shelf up here. The Chinese galleries take up most of the second floor. Down a long corridor lined with display cases is a room called the Chinese Scholar's Studio. I stop at the velvet rope across the opening. It's a re-creation of the “workroom of an educated, cultured Chinese gentleman who lived in the 1600s—a place to study, paint, meditate, and write poetry.”

I spot an antique wrist rest that's exactly like mine on the scholar's massive desk. It even has a radish carved into it! I step back, my hands and face tingling. What was Gone Mom doing with one? I wheel around as if expecting somebody to walk up with the answer, but I am alone in the hall. I turn back to the museum label by the doorway and read how the scholar used it to prop his forearm and keep his ink brush at the perfect painting angle, just the way Ralph demonstrated on my vanity.

Ceramic pots hold fat brushes with fine-pointed tips. I gaze at water droppers, carved jade paperweights, a stringed instrument called a zither, and a fairy-tale rock so twisted and full of holes it looks like Mother Nature used an eggbeater to make it.

Hanging flower scrolls and fancy shelves with porcelain rabbits and teapots are described as sources of scholarly inspiration. Mother's favorite quality—
refined
—comes to mind. A true gentleman-scholar was accomplished in all the fine arts.

I step back thinking that Donald Firestone would completely disagree with this definition of “gentleman.”

The only thing missing here is the scholar. There's just a trace of him—a colorful embroidered robe and matching silk slippers by the door, as if he's about to step out to his imaginary garden and complete his peach blossom poem.

Elliot would make a perfect Chinese scholar-artist. He
could live alone in a room like this, only messier, with his dented coffee thermos on the desk, his forearm propped on a towel roll, and rarely talk to anybody. Mr. Howard says he cares about his brush and pencil strokes more than any artist who has ever lived. He's probably right, but the
gentleman
part doesn't exactly fit. Elliot's hair would never make a neat topknot.

These old men cultivated their brains. They loved nature. How can people who once made porcelain bunnies and painted bamboo branches have turned so ruthless?

I hear hammering around the corner, and voices. I walk over and stop at folding screens blocking entry to a gallery. Except for the workers behind the partitions, I am the only visitor around. I peek into a large, unlighted room—the Main Chinese Gallery, filled with stacks of wooden crates and carts. Beyond it is a smaller, brightly lit room with construction workers and museum people wearing lab coats. One man on scaffolding adjusts a spotlight. The beam sweeps the walls and flashes on something hanging from the ceiling—a shiny gold globe on a chain.

My stomach jolts.

I hold my breath, cover one eye, and look again.

The next thing I know, I have slipped around the partition into the darkened gallery. I tiptoe behind a crate, sneak around toolboxes and tarps, and crouch down, my eyes fixed on the glowing ball in the next room. I see nine dragons—
gau
luhng
—playing on the ceiling. I gaze at the very same dragon pearl I tried to catch with Gone Mom.

This
was where we came together. Right here! I sit back on my heels, imagining the pressure of her hand molded against my backbone. Her soft laugh rattles like wind chimes inside me. The workman shifts his light. Our pearl winks out, but I have retrieved our memory—alive and vivid and full of heartache.

A ladder rattles in the temple. The light man is coming down. I snag my petticoat on a nail as I sneak out of the room. I stop, feeling along the nylon net to unhook it, until finally I just yank, leaving a jagged lace dragon tail behind. I slip silently into the hall, my revelation exploding inside. Leaning against the wall, eyes shut, heart thumping, I let my mind tumble back and I am little, reaching with both arms to hug Mamá around the neck. I pull in a deep breath. She still smells like sandalwood.

I find my way downstairs to the fainting couch in the bathroom. A mother is in there feeding her baby boy a bottle. Did Gone Mom ever feed me in here? The baby stops sucking when I sit down and burst out crying. They both look over. Without a word the mother hands me a folded diaper to wipe my face.

My eyes are a mess and I'm still shuddering when I leave the ladies' room, praying I won't run into Elliot. I make a beeline back upstairs to peek once more between
the folding screens. A security guard walks up to me.
Uh-oh.
His glasses are smudgy. He wears a badge, a gray uniform, and thick black shoes.