Pangs of Love
Each night， like most Americans， my mother watches hours of TV.She loves Lucy and Carol Burnett[5]， then switches to cable for the Chinese channel， but always concludes the broadcast day with the local news and Johnny Carson[6].She doesn’t understand what Johnny says， but when the studio audience laughs， she laughs too， as if invisible wires run between her and the set.
My mother has lived in this country for forty years and, through what must be a monumental act of will, has managed not to learn English.This does no one any good, though I suppose when it comes to TV her linguistic shortcomings can’t be anything but a positive evolutionary adaptation; dumb to the prattle that fills the airwaves, maybe her brain will wither proportionately less than the average American’s.
I am thirty-five years old， and for the past nine months have lived with my mother in a federally subsidized high-rise in the lower reaches of Chinatown[7].After my father died， my siblings convened a secret meeting during which they unanimously elected me our mother’s new apartment mate.They moved her things from Long Island[8]， carpeted her floors，bought prints for the walls， imported me for company， then returned to their lives.I work for a midsize corporation that manufactures synthetic flavors and fragrances.We are the soul of hundreds of household products：the tobacco taste in low-tar cigarettes， the pine forests in aerosol cans， the minty pizzazz of toothpastes.We have sprays that simulate the smell of new cars； in fact， we have honed the olfactory art to a level of sophistication that enables us to distinguish between makes and models.Our mission is to make the chemical world， an otherwise noxious，foul-tasting， polysyllabic ocean of consumer dread， a cozier place for the deserving noses and tastebuds of America.
My mother’s in her pajamas， her hair in a net that seems to scar her forehead.I’m sitting up with her， putting in time.I flip through the day’s paper， Johnny in the background carrying on a three-way with Ed and Doc[9]， when my mother’s laugh starts revving like a siren.I shoot her a look—fat-lipped， pellet-eyed—that says， What business do you have laughing， Mrs.Pang？ My mother’s a sweet， blockish woman whom people generally like.She’s chatty with her friends in her loud Cantonese voice and keeps her cabinets and refrigerator jammed tight with food， turning her kitchen into a mini grocery store—she’s prepared for a long famine or a state of siege.Now， feeling the stab of my glare， she holds in her laughter，hand over mouth schoolgirl-style， hiding those gold caps[10] that liven up her smiles， eyes moist and shifty dancing.
I roll my eyes the way Johnny does and return to the paper.The world’s going through its usual contortions： bigger wars， emptier stomachs，more roofless lives； so many unhappy， complicated acres.As a responsible citizen of the planet， I slip into my doom swoon， a mild but satisfying funk over the state of the world.But then she starts again.Fist on cheek blocking my view of her gold mine[11].Her round shoulders quivering with joy.I click my tongue to let her know she has spoiled my dark mood.She turns toward me， sees the sour expression hanging on my face like dough，points at the screen where Johnny’s in a turban the size of a prize pumpkin，then waves me off， swatting at flies.Ed’s “ho-ho-ho” erupts from the box[12]，the siren in her throat winds up， and all I see is the dark cave of her mouth.
What I need is a spray that smells of mankind’s worst fears，something on the order of canned Hiroshima[13]， a mist of organic putrefaction， that I’ll spritz whenever the audience laughs.That’ll teach her.
I stumble over my own meanness.Some son I am.What does she know about such things anyway？ It’s fair to say she’s as innocent as a child.Her mind isn’t cluttered with worries that extend beyond food and family.When she talks about the Japanese raids on her village back home[14]， for instance， it’s as a personal matter； the larger geopolitical landscape escapes her.She blinks her weary eyes.She’s fighting sleep， hanging on to Johnny for one more guest before turning in.Suddenly， I have the urge to wrap my arms around her solid bulk and protect her， only she’d think I’m crazy， as I would if she did the same to me.“Go to bed，” I say.“I’m not tired yet，”she says.I cup my hands over my face， my fingers stinking of toilet-tissue lilacs and roses， and think things that should never enter a son’s mind： a bomb explodes over the Empire State[15]， forty blocks due north on a straight line from where we are seated， and glass shatters， and she’s thrown back， the net on her hair， her pajamas， her beaded slippers on fire， and she hasn’t a clue how such a thing can happen in this world.And I imagine I’ll never see her again.
I fetch the newspaper， go to the couch where my mother’s seated， and splash-land down beside her.I’m all set to translate the headlines， to wake her up to the world， when I stop， my tongue suddenly lead.I don’t have the words for this task.Once I went to school， my Chinese vocabulary stopped growing； in conversation with my mother I’m a linguistic dwarf.When I talk Chinese， I’m at best a precocious five-year-old， and what five-year-old chats about the military budget？ Still， I’m determined and gather my courage.“What’s that？” I ask， pointing at the dim photo on the front page.An Afghan guerrilla， eyes to sky， on the lookout for planes， crouches near the twisted body of a government soldier； in the desolate background there’s a tank， busted up in pieces[16].My mother pulls on the glasses she bought at the drugstore and takes a closer look.“A monkey？” she says.I finger the body.She gives up.“That’s a dead person，” I say， pulling the paper away.“People are dying everywhere.”
“You think I don’t know.Your father just died.” Her voice is quivering, but combative.
I realize I’m on shaky ground.“This man’s killed by another man,” I say.I’m supposed to talk about freedom, about self-determination, but with my vocabulary that’s a task equal to digging a grave without a shovel.“People are killing people and all you worry about is your next bowl of rice.”
“You don’t need to eat?” she snaps.“Fine, don’t eat.It costs money to put food on the table.”
She keeps talking this way， but I tune her out， giving my all to Johnny.That guy from the San Diego Zoo’s on[17]， and with him is the fleshy pink offspring of an endangered species of wild boar.It knocks over Johnny’s coffee， and Johnny jumps.The audience roars； I laugh too， but it’s forced，a forgery； my mother’s still sore and just sits there， holding herself in like a bronze Buddha.
While I am at work the next day， she calls me.She wants to know whether I’ve rented a car yet.My youngest brother owns a house on the Island[18]， and we’re invited out for the weekend.My mother and I have gone over our plans many times already， so when she starts in now I lose patience in a wink.But I catch myself—with my mother repetition is a necessity， as it is when teaching a child to speak.The rental car is my idea.She says we’ll save money by taking the train.But she keeps forgetting there’s three of us traveling—me， my mother， and my friend Deborah.Once we agree to go in a rental car， she then tells me I should get a small model in order， again， to save money.“I’ll ask for one with three wheels[19]，” I say.And she says anything’s fine， but cheaper is better.
Later the same day， my boss， Kyoto， comes to my office with a problem.Every time we meet he sizes me up， eyes crawling across my body， and lots of sidelong glances.Who is this guy？ It’s the same going-over I get when I enter a sushi joint， when the chefs with their long knives and blood-red headbands stop work and take my measure，colonizers amused by the native’s hunger for their superior culture[20].Kyoto says a client in the personal-hygiene business wants a “new and improved” scent for its men’s deodorant.
“They want to change Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e?”
He bows his head, chin to chest.“You take care for Kyoto, okay?”Kyoto says.
I nod, slow and low, as if in mourning.He nods his head.I nod again.
Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e.Palm trees and surf， hibachied hotdogs topped with mustard， relish， and a tincture of Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e.Amanda Miller.Mandy Millstein[21].She was my love，and I followed her to Los Angeles.Within a year， about the time Sony purchased Columbia Pictures[22]， she fell for someone named Ito， and broke off our engagement.When that happened， my siblings rushed to fill the void Mandy’s leaving left in my life， and decided I should be my newly widowed mother’s apartment mate.My mother had grown accustomed to Mandy.She spoke Chinese， a stunning Mandarin that she learned at Vassar[23]， and while that wasn’t my mother’s dialect Mandy picked up enough Cantonese to hold an adult conversation， and what she couldn’t bridge verbally she wrote in notes.They conspired together to celebrate Chinese festivals and holidays， making coconut-filled sweet-potato dumplings， lotus-seed cookies， daikon and green onion soup， tiny bowls of monk’s food for New Year’s Day.Beyond all that， Mandy had a ladylike manner of dressing that appealed to my mother’s own vanity， and to her notions of what an American （“If you’re going to marry a non-Chinese，she might as well look the part”） should be： skirt， nylons， high-heel shoes[24].
Kyoto’s request saddens me.Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e， a synthetic hybrid of natural deer and mink musks， spiced with a twist of mint， was， and always will be， our special scent.Taken internally， it had an aphrodisiacal effect on Mandy.One night， as was my custom， I had brought samples of our latest flavors and fragrances home from the lab.As usual， Mandy eagerly sniffed the tiny corked vials； when she tried the musk， she said it smelled dirty[25].I told her that to fully appreciate its essence it needed to come in contact with the heat of one’s skin.She， of course， refused to experiment with her own flesh， so I volunteered my hand； as she poured， I warned her that this was a concentrate， each drop equal in potency to the glandular secretions of a herd of buck deer.Clearly my warnings unsettled her， because the next thing I know Mandy had dumped the whole works onto my palm.Later that evening， as planned， I made pizza， working the dough with my well-scrubbed hands， but Ivory soap[26]， as it turned out， was no match for the oily compounds in Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e.The baking pie filled the apartment with a scent reminiscent of horses.But the pizza itself was a sensation， every bite bearing a snootful of joy： tomato sauce that seemed to have fangs， cheese as virile as steak， onions so pungent they ripped our eyes from our heads.“It tastes alive，” Mandy said.
“Wild,” I said.
“It’s the basil,” she said.
Her eyes caught mine.I shook my head.“Not basil,” I said, “not oregano.”
She creased her second slice and dipped her fingertip in the reservoir of orange grease that pooled in the resulting valley.She touched her glistening orange finger to the gap between my eyebrows， then let it slide south down the bridge of my nose， stopping at the fleshy tip of my northernmost lip.At that moment I realized we’d been eating Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e.If it had any toxic properties， it hardly mattered then.Mandy started giggling， as if she were high on grass[27]， and I laughed to keep her company.She drew circles on my cheeks with the orange musk-laced oils.A regular pizza face.She cackled in the manner of chimps， and when I returned the favor and greased her with gleaming polka dots， I got the joke： no doubt I looked as dopey as she did then.
After that we spiked our food and beverages with Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e whenever Mandy was feeling amorous but needed a jump start.
I wonder how she has managed since she left.When she needs that little extra， does she do the same trick with Ito？ Has he noticed that his California rolls[28] smell funny—not fishy， but gamy like a herd of deer？ If Mandy wants to recapture that old magic she had with me， she’ll have to act quickly.Kyoto says it’s time for a change.The manly scent of musk is no longer manly enough.
It’s a sad day for love, Mandy, everywhere.
“This is a fancy car，” my mother says in Chinese as we stop-and-go up Third Avenue.“It must’ve cost you a bundle.Tell me， how mucha cents[29]，” she says conspiratorially.I look at her and say nothing.
“Isn’t this nice of Bagel，” my mother says a few minutes later.My youngest brother， the landowner in Bridgehampton[30]， has always been called “Bagel” in the family.His real name is Billy， and God help him who drops “Bagel” in front of Bagel’s friends[31].My mother’s the lone exception.When she says Bagel， he knows his friends simply think that’s her immigrant tongue mangling “Billy.” “Out of you four brothers and sisters，”she adds， “only Bagel asks me to visit.”
“What are you saying? How can I invite you over when I live with you?”
“That’s right.You’re a good son.”
“I didn’t say I was a good son, but didn’t I bring you out to California?”
“Ah-mahn-da invited me.”
“I told Amanda to invite you while she was talking to you on the phone.”
“That’s right, that’s right.You’re a good son,” she says.“Good son who doesn’t know how to talk to his own mother.His American girl speaks better Chinese.”
“Forget it,” I say, waving her off.
“That’s right.Always ‘fo-gellit, fo-gellit.’ Ah-mahn-da never uses such words.”
I swing across Twenty-third heading for Park[32].“Look at so many Puerto Ricans，” she says.“Just like in California.”
My brain stops， wrapped around a telephone pole that is my mother.I tell myself， Try.Explain the difference to your mother， who knows next to nothing： in Los Angeles what she thinks are Puerto Ricans are Mexicans and Chicanos.But I don’t even know the words for Mexico， so how do I begin？ In Chinese I’m as geography-poor as my mother， who knows only the streets and fields she’s walked.Maybe I should use my hands.This is California， Amanda and I lived here， and over here—by my right hand—is another country Americans call Mexico.But that requires the patience of a special-ed teacher[33].In her mental maps， California is a few hours’ drive from New York.That’s what I’m up against.
Deborah is a bean pole.As a joke， my mother calls her “Mah-ti，”water chestnut[34]， the squat， bulbous tuber that tapers to a point like a mini dunce cap.She has hips that flare like the fins of an old Cadillac， but no rump to speak of.She wears glasses with a rhinestone frame—she’s had the same ones since the eighth grade； this is not a stab at style here[35]—and photosensitive lenses that have the annoying quality of never being dark enough or clear enough； she’s always in a haze.On the rare occasions she’s visited me at my mother’s， she’s come dressed in a most unladylike fashion： penny loafers or running shoes， chinos， and shirts bought in a boys’department.Today is no exception.I stop the rental car， a big Chevy[36]four-door， at Park and Thirty-third.She grabs the front-passenger-side handle and stands there expecting my mother to climb into the backseat like a dog.I hit the power window switches[37].“You can sit in front when we stop to pee，” I say.
Deborah slams the door behind her.She leans forward in her seat.“How are you， Mrs.Pang？” I’ve heard her speak more warmly to the bald mice she tends at Sloan-Kettering[38].That’s where we met.At the lab we had had a small-scale scare， a baby version of the Red Dye No.3 controversy a few years back， that forced Kyoto to send me， his right-hand slave， across town to have the stuff tested in Deborah’s mice.
“Goot，” my mother says.“How you？”[39]
Deborah doesn’t answer.Won’t waste her breath on someone who can’t take the conversation the next step.Mrs.Pang， the linguistic dead-end street.Barbarian， I think.But a savage in bed she is， even without Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e.Early on， my mother caught us in the sack—her sack[40]， in fact—bony Deborah， with breasts like thimbles， on all fours.At that moment， as my mother’s eyes burned holes through our nakedness， I meant to say， “What are you looking at？” full of indignation， but it came out a meek， “What do you see？” Fine， Deborah， I think， trash my mother； you’re not a keeper anyway， as the fishermen say[41].She’s the rebound among rebounds[42]； only somehow she’s stuck.If I had the words I’d straighten my mother out， allay her fears.What is she so fond of saying？ “Are you planning to marry Mah-ti？” To which I tell her，emphatically， no.“So why，” she says back， “you always hugging that scrawny thing？”
The trouble between Deborah and my mother runs deeper than the fact that my mother’s seen the glare of Deborah’s glassy bare rump.There are things I can do to soften their feelings toward each other.I might buy Deborah a pair of high-heel shoes， or register her at Hunter[43] for Cantonese classes， or rent videos of the Frugal Gourmet cooking Chinese；I might ask my mother to stop calling Deborah Mah-ti and teach her， with patient repetition， the difficult syllables of Deborah’s given name.But Deborah wants me to move out of my mother’s place， says I’m a mama’s boy[44]， calls me that even as we make love； and my mother’s still sad about the loss of Mandy， her surrogate Chinese daughter-in-law.My mother is subtle about this： “Mah-ti has no smell，” she says， “like paper.” That is to say， she misses Mandy， who made a point of showering herself with the perfumes I brought home from the lab whenever she visited my mother.There’s no clean dealing with either of them.
When we pass the gas tanks along the Expressway[45]， my mother tells me this is the very route Bagel always takes to his house.She says this with a measure of pride； I can tell what’s going on in her head： I’m driving the same road my brother has driven， and to my mother’s way of thinking that’s not only a remarkable coincidence but a confirmation of the common thread between us， our genes， our good blood—ah， her boys， her talented womb！ So why bother telling her the Expressway is the only reasonable route out to Bagel’s？
Her last time out， she says， she drove with Bagel and his friend“Ah-Jay-mee[46]” in the latter’s two-seater[47]， with Bagel folded into the rear storage area， best suited for umbrellas and tennis rackets.Then she wistfully adds that Bagel’s former apartment mate Dennis had a car that had an entire backseat， but the luxury is “washed up” since he moved out.
After a while Deborah taps me on the shoulder.“What’s she saying?She’s talking about me, right? I heard her say my name.”
“She said Dennis.”
“Dennis-ah cah bik[48]，” my mother tells Deborah， spreading her hand to show size.
“Tell her this is a ‘bik’ pain in the you-know-what,” Deborah says in a huff.“Tell her I’m tired of your secrecy, of being gossiped about in front of my face.”
I say, “Slow down, okay? We’re discussing my brother.”
“What’s Mah-ti saying?” my mother asks.
“She’s saying her parents have a big car.She wants to take you on a drive someday.”
My mother turns to Deborah and says, “Goot!”
There is not much traffic eastbound on a Saturday， not at this hour.Deborah’s listening to her Walkman； I take the tinny scrape scrape scrape of the headphone’s overflow as a token of peace.My mother stares out the windshield.Her eyes look glazed， uncomprehending.She seems out of place in a car， near machines， a woman from another culture， of another time， at ease with needle and thread， around pigs and horses.When I think of my mother’s seventy-five-year-old body hurtling forward at eighty miles an hour， I think of our country’s first astronaut， a monkey strapped into the Mercury capsule， all wires and restraints and electricity， shot screaming into outer space.[49]
With Deborah occupied, I figure it’s safe to talk.A chance to humanize the speed, the way pharmaceutical companies sweeten their chemicals with Cherry 12/Lot No.x362-4d so a new mother will eyedropper the stuff into her baby’s mouth.
We speak at the same time.
“Ah-Vee-ah，” she says my Chinese name in a whisper， “why is it that Ba-ko[50] has no girlfriends？ You have too many.You should marry.Look at Ah-yo[51].See how content he is？”
Poor Ray! If she only knew half of his troubles.
“Why is Ba-ko so stubborn?” she asks.“I tell you something, when I offer to take him to Hong Kong to find a bride, you know what he says?He says he’s already married to his cat.Ah-Vee-ah,” she says, touching my hand, “he upsets me so, I wouldn’t even mind if he dated your Mah-ti.”
I laugh a little； she shows her gold mischievously[52].“Tell me，” she says （we’re confidants now）， “what do you make of your youngest brother？”
I shrug my shoulders.“I don’t know,” I say, turning palms up.“Ask him.”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“Talk to Bagel.”
“Fo-gellit!” she says.
At some time or other， my mother’s offered to take all the boys on bride safaris in Hong Kong.Ray’s the only one to take her up on it， and came back to the States with a Nikon and telephoto lenses and horror stories about pigeon restaurants[53].He’s married to a Catholic girl named Polly， who insisted， probably to get back at her parents for some past sins，on taking his name—Polly Pang.Even Ray tried to dissuade her.Following my example， Bagel has turned my mother down every time.Once after a family dinner， I overheard my mother working on Bagel.She said， “I want to see Hong Kong again before I die.I first went there in 1939 because of the Japanese[54].How proud I’d be returning to old friends with such a fine young son！ ‘An overseas bandit，’ they call you.They line the prettiest girls up for you.Whatever you like.You pick.Take her out.If you don’t like her， you try another.Too muchee Chinee girl.[55]”
My brother said, “I’m too busy for a wife.”
“She cook for you.”
“I won’t be able to talk to her.”
“They’re all very modern.They’re learning English.If you take a young one, you can teach her yourself.”
“I’m already married to my cat.”
“Such crazy talk,” she said.“What kind of life is that, hugging a cat all the time.She give you babies?”
“Forget it,” he said.“Too much trouble.”
“You’re killing me，” she said.“Soon I’ll be lying next to your father.You crazy juk-sing[56]， you do as I say.Before it’s too late， marry a Chinese girl who will remember my grave and come with food and spirit money.Left up to you， I’ll starve when I’m dead.”
Bagel’s house is white.Even the oak floors have been bleached white.A stranger in a white turtleneck and white pleated trousers opens the door.He’s very blond, with dazzling teeth and a jawline that’s an archeologist’s dream.“Well, look who’s here,” he says, “the brother, et al.” We shake hands, and he says his name’s Nino.Nino leads us to the sun-washed living room and introduces us to Mack, who’s sprawled over a couch with the Times.My mother whispers that she’d warned my brother against buying a white couch because it wouldn’t “withstand the dirt,” but she’s surprised at how clean it looks.Mack’s dressed like Deborah, and this depresses me.“Billy,” Nino says in a loud singsong, “big bro and Mommy’s here.”
Jamie of the two-seater comes into the living room.He hugs my mother, shakes my hand, and nods at Deborah.He’s in a white terry-cloth robe and Italian loafers, and offers us coffee.Down the hallway someone starts to run a shower.
While Jamie grinds coffee beans in the kitchen.Nino says, “I had the worst night’s sleep.” He’s stretched out on the other couch, his hand cupped over his eyes.“What a shock to the system, it was so damn quiet.How do the chipmunks stand it?” Then my brother makes his entrance decked out in hound’s-tooth slack, tight turquoise tennis shirt, and black-and-white saddle shoes.“God, Billy,” Nino says, “you always look so pulled together.”
Hugs and kisses all the way around.Bagel’s got bulk.He pumps iron[57].I feel as if I’m holding a steer.
“Ah-Ba-ko,” my mother says, once we have resettled in our seats,“come and see.” She leans forward in her easy chair, a white plastic shopping bag of goodies from Chinatown at her feet.“I told her not to,” I say as she unloads bundles of raw greens and paper boats of dumplings onto the armrests.When she magically lifts the roast duck from the bag,soy sauce drips from the take-out container and lands on the chair, spotting the off-white fabric.Bagel has a fit: “I invite you to dinner and you bring dinner.”
“So what else is new?” I hear Deborah say.
Within seconds， Nino， Mack， Jamie， and Bagel converge on the stains with sponges， Palmolive[58] dishwashing detergent， paper towels， and a pot of water.An eight-armed upholstery patrol.
Soon after, we’re having Jamie’s coffee and nibbling on my mother’s dumplings, which Bagel has arranged beautifully on a Chinese-looking platter, as much a conciliatory gesture as it is his way of doing things.
“Bette Davis[59] was buried yesterday，” Mac says， from behind the paper.
“Really?” says Nino.“God, now there’s a lady.Hollywood heaven,open your gates.May she rest…in…peace.”
“What eyes she had,” says Jamie, “like two full moons.”
“Old bug eyes,” Deborah says.
Nino makes a hissing sound.We all look at Deborah.“Oh, hell,” Nino finally says, “what does she know?”
“How old was she?” my brother asks before Deborah can answer Nino back.
“Who knows? I saw her on Johnny Carson and she looked like hell.”
“Johnny Cahson? He said Johnny Cahson, right?” My mother giggles,thrilled she understood a bit of our conversation.
Bagel rolls his eyes at me like Johnny.I shrug my shoulders as if to say, I didn’t invite her to the party.
“I wanted so badly for Bette to be beautiful, but she looked like leftovers that even the cat won’t touch.I swear I cried, she was such a mess.”
“He did,” says Mack.“Poor Nino, it was tragic.He cried the biggest tears ever.But you have to admit, she still had those fabulous eyes.”
“Sure， eyes.The rest of her had been run over by Hurricane Hugo[60].”
“I saw that show,” Jamie says.“Her mind was still there.She was very sharp.”
“Oh sure,” says Nino, “so’s broken glass.”
Deborah laughs; then my mother laughs.“What is she laughing about?” my mother asks through her own laughter.I shake my head to quiet her down.
Bagel holds up a gray-skinned dumpling to the ceiling.A toast: he says, “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?”
“Jezebel,” says Jamie.
“All About Eve.”
“Kid Galahad[61]，” I say.
“Oooo， that has Edward G.Robinson[62] in it，” Nino says.
Bagel’s cat， Judy， and her husband， Vavoom， enter the living room，led by their noses.My mother surreptitiously plunks a shrimp dumpling on each armrest.She sees I see her doing this， and I scowl at her and she scowls back， then covers her gold mine[63] with her hand as she breaks into a smile.She’s surrounded by cats.“Look！ What an adorable picture！” says Nino.“Judy， Vavoom， and Mrs.Pang， the goddess of treats.” Then he adds，“Truthfully， I wouldn’t give away any of these delicacies to cats； I wouldn’t give any to Bette， even if she begged from her deathbed.Mrs.Pang， you’ve made lifelong friends.” My mother， hearing her name， looks up from the cats， but the dim heat of her eyes tells everyone she’s understood little else.“Silly me，” Nino says， “did I say something？”
Bagel’s a commercial artist， Nino’s a jewelry designer， Mack’s a book editor， Jamie’s a city attorney.During a lull in the conversation， which we fill by watching the cats walk across my mother’s lap from one armrest to the other， Jamie asks what’s new at my job.I consider the Kyoto-Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e affair， but realize if I mention Mandy’s name my mother will start in on me.So， instead， I improvise： “The rumor going around the lab，” I begin， “says the chemists are developing a spray for the homeless， a time-release formula that’ll simulate， in succession， the smell of a living room in a Scarsdale Tudor， a regular coffee （cream and one sugar）， a roast-beef dinner， and fresh sheets washed in Tide[64].”
“How ingenious!” Nino says.“The nose is such an amazing organ.”
“When someone asks you for change,” says Mack, “you give him a squirt of the comforts of home.”
“Picture this, a panhandler in a subway car: ‘Spare spray, spare spray?’”
“This is sick,” says Deborah.
“I’m just giving you the latest gossip,” I say.“The other rumor is that the city plans to distribute the stuff to the homeless.”
“Cheaper than shelters, I suppose,” Mack says.
“This is news to me，” says Jamie， the city attorney.“But I wouldn’t put it past the mayor’s office.Remember those prints of potted flowers the city put in the windows of abandoned buildings up in Harlem[65]？”
He pours himself a cup of coffee.“I’m working on a homeless case right now，” he says.“This couple， the Montezumas， show up at Bellevue[66]one day.They’re carrying one of those Express Mail envelopes and inside there’s a baby， hot and sticky from being born， the cord still on.She’s purple， in real trouble.The doctors hook her up to machines， but in a few days she dies.Only she doesn’t look dead.The machines pump air into her lungs， and somehow her heart keeps beating.”
“Then she’s alive,” I say.
“No, she looks alive, but that’s what Montezuma claims.Her chest goes up and down.But her brain doesn’t register a single blip on the screen.Specialists are called in, and they tell Montezuma the same story.But Montezuma says God is testing us all, and he won’t let the hospital pull the plug.Meanwhile the city is footing the bill.More specialists are consulted;Montezuma still refuses to sign the forms, so finally the city steps in and turns off the juice.The next thing you know, half the attorneys in town are fighting for the chance to sue the city, and I have lots of work.”
Bagel, Jamie, and I spend the afternoon playing tennis while my mother watches us from the car.The others take a drive around the“countryside.”
We eat dinner late.Jamie barbecues chicken.My mother chops her duck into rectangular chunks.We drink three bottles of chardonnay.Afterward, we’re in the kitchen, slicing pies, making coffee, putting away leftovers, washing dishes.
I hear my mother calling for Bagel.We find each other in the busy kitchen, and he asks me to see what she wants.
She’s in the master bedroom standing in front of the TV set.It’s turned on; the screen’s filled with pink and blue snow.
“What are you doing?” I say.“This is Saturday.There’s no Johnny Carson.”
“You think I don’t know,” she says.“Saturday night has to have wrestling.”
I flip through the stations with the remote control.For as long as I can remember, my mother has been a wrestling fan.It’s good pitted against evil; the clean-shaven, self-effacing, play-by-the-rules good guy versus the strutting, loudmouthed, eye-gouger.No language skills required here.A dialogue of dropkicks, forearm smashes, and body slams.It’s a big fake but my mother believes.And for a long time, as a kid, our family gathered in front of the set Saturday nights, drinking sodas and cracking red pistachio nuts, true believers all.
In one of my strongest memories, a man from ringside wearing a pea coat and knit cap, with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, leapt into the ring where the champ, a vicious long-haired blond, was taking a post-victory strut on his victim’s chest.The fans in the arena, my mother beside me, were voicing their indignation when this mystery man, who looked as if he had walked in off the streets, caught the champ unawares,lifted him onto his shoulder, and applied a backbreaker, soon recognized as his signature hold.What joy, what gratitude, what relief we all felt! Justice restored! Later in the program, the ringside announcer interviewed our hero.He was an Italian sailor, he said, in heavily accented English, a recent immigrant to U.S.shores.
It was myth in action.The American Dream in all its muscle-bound splendor played out before our faithful eyes.
My mother and I sit at the edge of the king-size bed.On the screen， a match is about to begin between a doe-faced boy named Bubby Arnold and the Samurai Warrior.The All-American Boy[67] meets the Yellow Peril[68].The outcome is obvious to everyone except my mother.She yells encouragement to Bubby， “Kill him， kill the little Jap boy！” as he bounds across the ring， all grit and determination， but promptly collapses to the mat when he runs into the Samurai Warrior’s lethal， upraised foot.I shake my head.By then my thoughts are full of Kyoto and Mandy’s Ito.My Musk 838/Lot No.i9144375941-3e， testament to our love， and my tenuous hold on Mandy are crumbling， going the way of Bubby Arnold under the Samurai Warrior’s assault.I ache for Bubby， the poor schnook.I can’t bear to watch.But my mother hasn’t given up.She screams for her man to step on his opponent’s bare toes， to yank on his goatee.But that isn’t in the script.He isn’t paid to be resourceful， no Yankee ingenuity here.No one，not my mother and her frantic heart， can change the illusion.
At the commercial break my mother says, “The Japanese are so cruel.He almost killed that poor boy.” She goes on that way, recounting the mugging, and I tell her not to take it so seriously.“It’s all a fake,” I say.“He’s not really hurt.”
“I have eyes,” she says.“I know what I just saw.”
I’m surprised by the sudden heat in her voice, by the wound beneath the words.The fights matter: in them, she believes her heart’s desire, her words of encouragement have currency.What she wants counts.But the truth is she doesn’t believe what she has seen.The good guy should win.Somewhere in that mind of hers she carries hope for the impossible.Bubby Arnold triumphant, Mandy back in our lives again.I look at her, a woman against the odds.What a life of disappointment!
I won’t let her down as Bubby Arnold has.She needs to hear the truth:there is no Santa; the Communists aren’t leaving China.Her beloved Amanda is gone for good.
“I have to tell you something.” I take a deep breath and say,“Amanda,” and as anticipated, she’s startled, expectant, hanging on my next word.
I regret I ever started.That hope is flickering in her irises, and it’s poison to my enterprise.But I have no recourse but to get on with it; as my mother likes to say at such a juncture, “You wet your hair, you might as well cut it.”
I know what I want to say in English.My mind’s stuffed full with the words.I pull one sentence at a time from the elegant little speech I’ve devised over the months for just this occasion, and try to piece together a word-for-word translation into Chinese.Yielding nonsense.I abandon this approach and opt for the shorter path, the one of reduction, simplicity,lowest common denominator.“Ah-mahn-da, what? Talk if you have talk.”There’s music in her voice I haven’t heard in years.
“I like Amanda,” I say.
My mother nods.On the TV, wrestlers being interviewed snarl into the camera and holler threats that seem directed not so much at future opponents, but at the viewers themselves.
“She doesn’t like me,” I say.
“Crazy boy.Like? What is this ‘like’? I lived all those years with your father—who worried about who liked which one? Tomorrow, you call her back here.”
Samurai Warrior’s grinning face fills the screen.In the background his manager carries on about the mysteries of the Orient[69]， tea ceremonies，karate， brown rice， and his client’s Banzai[70] Death Grip.
“Look it, look it.He’s so brutal, that one is,” my mother says.She touches my cheek, her hand warm but leathery.I can’t remember this happening before.“You say you like her, so call her back.”
“What’s wrong with your ears? I said she doesn’t like me.She likes him.” I point at the TV.
“Crazy boy.What are you saying?” She dismisses me, her fingers pushing off my cheek, as if they have springs.
“Amanda likes a Japanese.”
“That one?” she says, meaning the wrestler.
I pound my fists against my thighs.“No, not him.” I stand up and pace the carpet between my mother and the TV set.“Amanda,” I begin,“Amanda…” And each time I say her name and hesitate, my mother sucks in breath and inflates with new hope.I stop pacing.She looks up at me from her seat at the edge of the bed.I touch her cheeks with both hands.I don’t know where the gesture comes from, movies or TV, but it has nothing to do with what went on in our household.I am on strange ground.In my palms her face is a glass bowl, open and cool.“Amanda likes you.She doesn’t like me.She likes a Japanese boy in California.I can call her,but she’s not coming back.”
My mother pulls away, not just from my hands, but receding, a filament inside her dimming.“Ah-mahn-da makes a delicious dumpling,”she says in a small, distant voice.“She rolls the skins so delicately.”
During the next match she is uncharacteristically subdued.The fight has left her.On the screen two masked wrestlers beat up Bubby Arnold clones.Nothing issues from her, no encouragement, no outrage, no hope.I’ve robbed my mother of her pleasure, of her flimsy faith in Americans, in America, and in me.And I don’t have the words for I am sorry, or fine sentences that would resurrect her faith and put things back in order.I’m the pebble in her shoe, the stone in her kidney.Now I see that she’s Montezuma from Jamie’s story: she would hold on to the slimmest hope,while I, as I have just done, would rush in and pull the plug on her.
At the next commercial time-out she turns to me and says，“Ah-Vee-ah， all the men in this house have good jobs， they have money，why don’t they have women？ Why is your brother that way？ What does he tell you？ I don’t understand.” She speaks somberly， with difficulty， as she had when she described the raids[71].
Her eyes, I see, are filled with tears.I know that she cries easily and often since my father’s death.I’ve heard her in her room late at night.
I put my hand on her back, as round as a turtle’s, but hot and meaty.“I don’t know,” I tell her, and for the first time I am stunned by my deception of her.“I don’t know why there’s no women here.”
Bagel comes to the bedroom announcing coffee and dessert.He turns off the set.I can read his mind.He doesn’t want his friends to know he dropped from the womb of one who loves something as low as wrestling.“Come eat pie,” he says.
“Pie.Who made them?” she asks.
“I did, who else? I stayed up last night baking pies for you.Come on.”
“Yours I won’t eat,” she says.“I want to taste your girlfriend’s baking.”
“You crazy? I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says.“She’s driving me crazy!” he exclaims, then leaves the bedroom, and we follow.
“Ca-lay-zee.Who’s ca-lay-zee? You hammerhead.Hug your dead cat the rest of your life.How fragrant is that?”
“Forget it, Ma,” I say.I touch her shoulder, but she flicks me off.
“Ah-Ma,” she says.“How can I be your mother if nobody listens to what I say?”
At the table we are confronted with big wedges of apple pie.My mother’s still upset.She stares at the pie as if it were a form of torture.
“Where’ve you two been?” Deborah asks.
“In the bedroom, watching wrestling.”
“God， how retro，” she says.“What’s happening to you？[72]”
“Bagel,” I say, stopping his hand as he’s about to spoon sugar into my mother’s coffee.
“Bagels?” Jamie says.“You’re hungry for bagels? We’re having bagels for breakfast.”
I say nothing.I pull from my pocket gold-foil packets the size and shape of condoms.Inside each is a tablet developed at the lab.You dissolve it in your mouth, and it will disguise the sourness of whatever you drink or eat.I pass them to everyone at the table.
They won’t know what has happened.They will laugh, delighted by the tricks of their tongues.But soon the old bitterness in our mouths will be forgotten, and from this moment on, our words will come out sweet.