Tales of Accidental Genius (13 page)

After getting out of the car, Shirley tapped on the glass.

Weng pushed a button and the window

whispered into the door.

For a few moments, Shirley just stood there looking at him.

“All this time you were gone,” she said finally, “I thought it was
my fault because you had wanted a boy and got me instead.”

When Weng got back to the hotel, he had to lie down.

Then, about eleven
P.M.
, he got another foot massage

because the masseuse he knew was back.

“What's it like being a parent?” he asked her.

“It's hard,” the woman said.

“Because you don't have time for yourself anymore?”

“No,” the masseuse laughed. “Because you worry so much.”

“About money?”

“About them getting hurt. Money is just a side worry.”

After the massage Weng asked someone at the front desk

to bring his car around.

By dawn, he had driven to over a dozen all-night supermarkets,
buying every box of Bunny Pops he could find and emptying
the contents into the backseat.

The next morning, Shirley couldn't believe it,

“I feel like I really have won!”

When Weng went to pick her after school,

Shirley had someone with her.

“This is Melody, my best friend.”

Weng glared at Shirley.

“What?” She shrugged. “I'm just so excited you're back.”

Then Melody got into the Rolls-Royce and said:

“It's so nice of your dad to take us

to Chenghuang Miao market for new shoes.”

“I thought I was driving you home!”

“Too late—I already texted Grandma to say I was going to
Melody's house, and she texted to say

she was coming to my house.”

Melody clapped her hands. “So we're free to shop

all night or until the money runs out.”

“Which will be never,” Shirley laughed, unwrapping a Bunny
Pop and handing it to her friend. “Right, Dad?”

An hour later, Weng found himself negotiating

the price of girls' sneakers with a very short woman who
wouldn't budge on the price.

“You shouldn't argue prices,” Melody said loudly,
“when you drive a Rolls-Royce.”

They walked around the night market

then had dinner in the back of the car

so that Weng could demonstrate the karaoke system.

The girls sang songs like “Planting Trees” and “Tadpoles Lost.”

Weng chose “Blue Flowers.”

That night, before going to sleep, Shirley made a drawing.

Here we are
. . . , she said to herself as the crayon

moved across paper . . .

. . .
Shirley and Melody at Chenghuang Miao market

with Dad buying new shoes
. . . .

They were barefoot in the picture

and their feet were blue with cold.

Then she drew the shop, and the stout shopkeeper

with a gray coat and the mole on her cheek.

Everyone had hearts for eyes.

Their new shoes in the drawing were made of gold.

. . .
Now we're in Dad's car, eating noodles and singing
. . . .

Then Shirley picked her best red crayon and wrote to her
mother, using all the correct strokes to say,

It's time to be a family again.

A few days later,

Shirley offered to show Weng a park where people sing.

One group was about to start an opera

and its members were setting out colorful stools

for anyone willing to stay.

Weng bought Shirley an ice cream.

“Wish Melody was here,” she said.

“It's good to have a best friend.”

Shirley nodded. “Do you have one?”

Weng thought about it. “I used to.”

“What happened to them?”

“We no longer speak.”

“That's weird.”

“When you care about someone, Shirley, you do what is right
for them—which may not be what you want

or what makes you happy.”

Shirley licked her ice cream. “Is that why you

had to go away for so long?”

“And why I have to go away again,” Weng said.

On the walk back to the car,

they stood for a moment by the lake.

“I wonder if people long ago thought a part of them was trapped
in the water?” Weng said.

“Look,” Shirley said. “We're trapped together.”

He knew that leaving was the right thing to do

but could not bring himself to say he was not her father;

it was a lie that felt true.

When they pulled up outside her apartment home,

Shirley was crying and wouldn't take off her seat belt.

“You must go back now to your grandparents.”

“I know what you're doing,” Shirley said.

“You're going to Beijing.”

“Shirley, please go now.”

“Why can't I come?”

“I can't tell you without lying.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don't know,” Weng said. “Take these Bunny Pops

to remember me.”

“I don't want them,” Shirley said. “I want to come to Beijing
with you and surprise Mom.”

When he got back to the hotel,

Weng asked the porter to find him a dictionary.

“I don't think we have one. We used to, but it's gone now.”

“Never mind then,” Weng said turning,

but the porter held his arm gently.

“Why don't you tell me the word, Mr. Fun, and I'll look it up on
the Internet, print it out, then hand it to you silently so no one
has to know?”

Once back in his room, Weng read the character over and over:

爸爸 ba ba (he who uses an ax to cut wood to warm the home)

It didn't say anything about blood,

and so Weng wondered if there was a chance

it could mean anyone.

Then he packed his bag,

Left an envelope with three Bunny Pops and ten thousand yuan
for the foot masseuse, and began the long journey back to Beijing.

In a gas station café someone had left a straw hat.

Weng picked it up, imagined the owner touching his head,

the sensation of unexpected loss.

Then about halfway home, he almost crashed into another car

because there was someone sitting in the backseat.

“Stay calm,” the figure said. “Focus on driving.”

But Weng was in shock. “What are you doing in my car!” he
screamed. “Did you get in at the service station?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” the shadow told him. “by the way, is
this the new Phantom?”

Blinking several times to ensure he wasn't dreaming,

Weng said nervously that it was.

“It seems different somehow,” the voice said,
“I can't put my finger on it. . . .”

“It's the floor model with karaoke upgrade.”

“Ah that must be it! My son's has the humidor,

and the picnic set—but not the karaoke.”

“What do you mean?” Weng said. “Your son has a Rolls-Royce?
Did you get into the wrong one?”

“Not exactly, Fun Weng. I am the ghost pig farmer of
Guanshan—and late father of Mr. Yi.”

Weng turned in disbelief, and the car veered toward a low stone
wall.

“Better watch what you're doing,” Mr. Yi's late father laughed.
“Or we'll both be sitting back here with all these Bunny Pops

and the fishy smell.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

“No, no,” the ghost said. “I'm here because

you've done something right.”

“Do you appear to your son like this?”

“Of course not! It would be much too complicated,

seeing as I'm technically dead.”

“But you're here now,” Weng pointed out,

“in the back of my Rolls-Royce.”

“No,” said the late Mr. Yi, “I've just willed myself into the shape
I had before so that I can ask you to help my son.”

“I don't understand. I can see you. . . .”

“Okay, watch this,” said the ghost and disappeared.

A moment later the Hello Kitty bobbleheads on the back
window opened their mouths and began

singing the Chinese national anthem.

Then the ghost reappeared in the shape of Mr. Yi.

“I'm just a spirit—conjured in part by you. But listen to me
now, Fun Weng,” the ghost said. “I'm worried about my son. He
is deeply unhappy, and very alone. At this rate, he'll never meet
anyone, and the living Mrs. Yi and I want grandchildren.”

“But you're dead.”

“That doesn't matter—a grandparent's wish for grandchildren
goes beyond the grave.”

“But what can I do? How can I help?”

“Be a friend to him, Weng, that's all. Reach out to him when
you get back and his life will begin changing for the better.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Good,” the spirit said. “Just be a friend and the rest will take
care of itself—these things I know—

but make haste, please. . . .”

“I will call the moment I get back.”

“Thank you,” the voice said. “You are
my
Golden Helper.”

About the time Weng returned to Beijing,

Cherry got the drawing from her daughter in the mail,

and texted her Uncle Ping immediately:

丈夫回来了!

非常富有吗?

真倒霉 ☹

HUSBAND RETURNED!

VERY RICH?

WHAT BAD LUCK ☹

Uncle Ping texted back:

给雪莉打电话
。
问问她事情进展地怎么样了
。

离婚还有可能吗? ☺生活就像跳舞

CALL SHIRLEY. FIND OUT WHAT'S GOING ON.

DIVORCE STILL POSSIBLE? ☺ LIFE ABOUT DANCING

When Cherry telephoned her daughter,

the terrible news was confirmed.

“Yes, Mom, it's true!” Shirley exclaimed. “And Dad's on his way
right now from Ningbo to get you!”

After the call, Shirley put on her silk scarf,

then sat a long time on her bed touching the knot,

staring out through hanging clothes

at the night sky.

The next day, when a Rolls-Royce Phantom crawled

through Cherry's hutong district, past the bicycles,

and the women sleeping, and the steam from pots,

people wondered what was happening.

Was someone buying up property to build another mall?

Had a neighbor won a competition?

Gotten lucky in Macao?

Or inherited a vast sum from an unmarried great-aunt

in Hong Kong?

At first Cherry wouldn't answer the door,

but the person kept knocking

then a voice came through the wood.

“I was wondering if you would like to ballroom with me? I
think you would be successful if you tried.”

Cherry touched the back of the door with both hands.

“We're not getting any younger,” the voice said.

“We might as well try.”

After some time, the handle turned,

and the door opened slowly.

There was Weng with his arms in position.

“Don't look at your feet,” he said as they began to move.

“Look at me.”

After a few times around the car,

old people appeared from nowhere and joined in.

Later on, over dinner, Cherry laughed at the story of Shirley
and Melody buying new shoes at the night market.

Although she was ashamed of it, Cherry admitted to Weng

how glad she was that her real husband was still missing.

“Though a divorce could take years,” she warned him.

Weng thought the most important thing was for mother and
daughter to reunite. “Take some time off,” he said.

“I'll drive you to Ningbo and you can explain

how I am just a friend and there was a mix-up. Then Shirley can
come to Beijing and live with you.”

“But her school . . .”

“There are schools here too,” Weng said. “And night markets.”

“What about her grandparents?”

“Bring them as well . . . we can all be unemployed together.”

When they arrived at the factory where Cherry worked,

her supervisor and coworkers wanted to know

if this was the man who had bought Cherry

such a pretty silk scarf?

Once Weng had explained his good fortune,

the boss agreed to give Cherry time off,

but wanted a favor in return.

“My son is partially sighted and attends a school for the blind.
He loves cars but has never had a chance to experience a
nice one. Would you take him for a ride in your Rolls-Royce
sometime?”

That night Weng tried calling Mr. Yi again.

He had been telephoning daily since his return from Ningbo
but with no answer.

This time his secretary picked up and said he was on a business
trip—would not be back for many days.

“A business trip?”

“Yes, Mr. Yi is in New England.”

“Where's that?”

“I don't know, maybe next to the old one?”

“Well, please tell him it is extremely urgent that we speak.”

That night, as Weng and Cherry packed the car for Ningbo,

Shirley was planning a trip of her own.

She had taken a picture of a train schedule with her phone,

and found times for the early morning express to Beijing.

Sneaking on shouldn't be too hard
, she thought.

Children always find a way.

She wanted to surprise her mother and win her father's
admiration for embarking on such a daring journey.

Shirley kissed her grandparents many times that night,

knowing they would suffer when her breakfast went cold.

She also kissed the photograph of her mother and drew hearts

on the plastic glass for eyes.