Typical American
(Excerpts)
A BOY WITH HIS HANDS OVER HIS EARS
IT’S AN American story： Before he was a thinker， or a doer， or an engineer， much less an imagineer[2] like his self-made-millionaire friend Grover Ding[3]， Ralph Chang was just a small boy in China， struggling to grow up his father’s son.We meet him at age six.He doesn’t know where or what America is， but he does know， already， that he’s got round ears that stick out like the sideview mirrors of the only car in town — his father’s.Often he wakes up to find himself tied by his ears to a bedpost， or else he finds loops of string around them， to which are attached dead bugs.“Earrings！” his cousins laugh.His mother tells him some thing like， It’s only a phase.（This is in Shanghainese.[4]） After a while the other boys will grow up， she says， he should ignore them.Until they grow up？ he thinks，and instead — more sensibly— walks around covering his ears with his hands.He presses them back， hoping to train them to bring him less pain.Silly boy！ Everyone teases him except his mother， who pleads patiently.
“That’s not the way.” She frowns.“Are you listening?”
He nods, hands over his ears.
“How can you listen with your hands over your ears?”
He shrugs.“I’m listening.”
Back and forth.Until finally， irked， she says what his tutor always says， “You listen but don’t hear！” — distinguishing， the way the Chinese will， between effort and result.Verbs in English are simple.One listens.After all， why should a listening person not hear？ What’s taken for granted in English， though， is spelled out in Chinese； there’s even a verb construction for this purpose.Ting de jian in Mandarin means， one listens and hears.Ting bu jian means， one listens but fails to hear.People hear what they can， see what they can， do what they can； that’s the understanding.It’s an old culture talking.Everywhere there are limits.[5]
As Ralph， who back then was not Ralph yet， but still Yifeng — Intent on the Peak[6] — already knew.His mother wheedles， patient again.“No hands on your ears during lessons， okay？ As it is， you have trouble enough.” It he stops， she promises， she’ll give him preserved plums，mooncakes， money.If he doesn’t， “Do you realize your father will beat me too？”
“Lazy，” says his father.“Stupid.What do you do besides eat and sleep all day？” The upright scholar， the ex-government official， calls him a fan tong — a rice barrel.[7] He has an assignment for his son： Yifeng will please study his Older Sister.He will please observe everything she does，and simply copy her.
His Older Sister （Yifeng calls her Bai Xiao， Know-It-All[8]） blushes.
Hands over his ears, Yifeng presses, presses, presses.
It’s 1947; Yifeng’s more or less grown up.The Anti-Japanese War has been over for two years.Now there’s wreckage, and inflation, and moral collapse.Or so it seems to his father as, on a fan-cooled veranda, he entertains apocalyptic thoughts of marching armies, a new dynasty, the end of society as they know it.
“Might there be something nicer to talk about?” suggests his mother.
But his father will talk destruction and gloom if he wants to.Degeneracy! he says.Stupidity! Corruption! These have been his lifelong enemies; thanks to them he no longer holds office.
“Too much rice wine,” muses Ralph’s mother.
This is in a small town in Jiangsu province， outside Shanghai， a place of dusty shops and rutted roads， of timber and clay — a place where every noise has a known source.Somewhere in the city， the girl who will become Helen hums Western love songs to herself； on a convent school diamond， Know-It-All （that is， Theresa） fields grounders from her coach.[9]Ralph， though — Yifeng — is on his way home from his job at the Transportation Department.His mother knows this.As his father prepares to write an article — he has an inkstone out， and a wolf’s hair maobi[10] —his mother prepares to speak up.
His father announces that he’s going to write about Degeneracy!Stupidity! Corruption!
“America,” his mother says then.
His father goes on grinding his ink.Yifeng simply cannot be going abroad.
“But it seems, perhaps, that he is.”
Silence.His father’s hand hovers over the inkstone, circling.He presses just so hard, no harder.He holds his ink stick upright.
A fellowship from the government! Field training! His son, an advanced engineer! No one knows what’s possible like a father.His ink blackens;and in the end he can’t be kept from making a few discreet inquiries,among friends.This is how he discovers that things are indeed more involved than they at first appeared.Though Yifeng has scored seventeenth on the department exam, he is one of the ten picked to go.
“No door like a back door[11]，” says his father.
“Your only son,” pleads his mother.
His father looks away.“Opposites begin in one another，” he says.And，“Yi dai qing qing， qi dai huai” — one generation pure， the next good for nothing.[12]
Of course, in the end, Yifeng did come to the United States anyway, his stomach burbling with fool hope.But it was privately, not through the government, and not for advanced field training, but for graduate study.A much greater opportunity, as everyone agreed.He could bring back a degree!
“A degree,” he echoed dully.
His mother arranged a send-off banquet, packed him a black trunk full of Western-style clothes.
“Your father would like to give you this,” she told him at the dock.As his father stared off into the Shanghai harbor — at the true ships in the distance, the ragtag boats by the shore — she slid a wristwatch into Yifeng’s hand.
Yifeng nodded.“I’ll remember him always.”
It was hot.
On the way to America, Yifeng studied.He reviewed his math, his physics, his English, struggling for long hours with his broken-backed books, and as the boat rocked and pitched he set out two main goals for himself.He was going to be first in his class, and he was not going home until he had his doctorate rolled up to hand his father.He also wrote down a list of subsidiary aims.
1.I will cultivate virtue.（A true scholar being a good scholar； as the saying went， there was no carving rotten wood.[13]）
2.I will bring honor to the family.
What else?
3.I will do five minutes of calisthenics daily.
4.I will eat only what I like, instead of eating everything.
5.I will on no account keep eating after everyone else has stopped.
6.I will on no account have anything to do with girls.
On 7 through 10, he was stuck until he realized that number 6 about the girls was so important it counted for at least four more than itself.For girls, he knew, were what happened to even the cleverest, most diligent,most upright of scholars; the scholars kissed, got syphilis, and died without getting their degrees.
He studied in the sun， in the rain， by every shape moon.The ocean sang and spit； it threw itself on the deck.Still he studied.He studied as the horizon developed， finally， a bit of skin — land！ He studied as that skin thickened， and deformed， and resolved， shaping itself as inevitably as a fetus growing eyes， growing ears.Even when islands began to heave their brown， bristled backs up through the sea （a morning sea so shiny it seemed to have turned into light and light and light）， he watched only between pages.For this was what he’d vowed as a corollary of his main aim — to study until he could see the pylons of the Golden Gate Bridge.[14]
That splendor! That radiance! True, it wasn’t the Statue of Liberty,but still in his mind its span glowed bright, an image of freedom, and hope,and relief for the seasick.The day his boat happened into harbor, though,he couldn’t make out the bridge until he was almost under it, what with the fog; and all there was to hear were foghorns.These honked high, low, high,low, over and over, like a demented musician playing his favorite two notes.
How was anyone supposed to be able to read?
Years later, when he told this story, he’d claim that the only sightseeing he did was to make a trip back to the bridge, in better weather,to have his picture taken.Unfortunately, he forgot his camera.As for the train ride to New York — famous mountains lumbered by, famous rivers,plains, canyons, the whole holy American spectacle, without his looking up once.
“So how’d you know what you were passing， then，” his younger daughter would ask.（This was Mona，[15] who was just like that， a mosquito.）
“I hear what other people talk,’’ he’d say — at least usually.Once,though, he blushed.“I almost never take a look at.” He shrugged, sheepish.“Interesting.”
New York.He admitted that maybe he had taken a look around there too.And what of it？ The idea city still gleamed then， after all， plus this was the city of cities， a place that promised to be recalled as an era.Ralph toured the century to date — its subway， its many mighty bridges， its highways.He was awed by the Empire State Building.[16] Those pilings！ He wondered at roller coasters， Ferris wheels.[17] At cafeterias — eating factories， these seemed to him， most advanced and efficient， especially the Automats[18] with their machines lit bright as a stage.The mundane details of life impressed him too — the neatly made milk cartons， the spring-loaded window shades， the electric iceboxes everywhere.Only he even saw these things， it seemed； only he considered how they had been made， the gears turning， the levers tilting.Even haircuts done by machine here！ The very air smelled of oil.Nothing was made of bamboo.
He did notice.
By and large, though, he really did study.He studied as he walked, as he ate.The first week.The second week.
The third week, however, what could happen even to the cleverest,most diligent, most upright of scholars (and he was at least diligent, he allowed) happened to him.
“She was so me — what you call? — tart,” he said.
GROVER AT THE WHEEL
IT NOW seemed that they were going to have dinner all over again.Grover began to eat desultorily， and as Janis[19] hadn’t had anything yet either， everyone else nibbled to keep them company.The dishes had all gone cold.Strikingly， Grover did not fidget at all； what was more， he participated in the conversation with as much alacrity as he had formerly shut it out.Would Old Chao consider giving them the lowdown on his new job？ Grover said he knew how reluctant Old Chao was to talk about himself.But was it true that one of the candidates turned down had gone to（he gasped） Cal Tech[20]？
And what about the other guy who’d gotten an offer？ Hadn’t he gone to M （Grover breathed） I （he breathed again） T[21]？
Old Chao answered from between clenched teeth.
“We-ell,” said Helen finally.“I’ve had enough.” She gave Janis a look.“Such a delicious food.”
Janis pushed her chair back, about to stand up.“Everyone finished now?”
“And did I hear you bought yourself a new car?” Grover lit a cigarette.
Silence.“Yes,” Old Chao said.“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Grover blew a smoke ring.“What kind?”
At length it was determined that the men should go out and see the car in person.Janis tendered the suggestion; the relief was almost audible.
“And what will you girls do?”
“Oh,” said Janis, “talk girl talk.Be down in a couple minutes.”
Neither Ralph nor Old Chao nor Grover said anything in the elevator.Outside, though, they began to talk a little.The weather, the traffic.It had just rained.The sewer drains thundered liltingly; the streets shone like glazed candy.And before them, now — the car.A long, curvy, ample machine, it sported some chrome — a front grille like a bulldog’s jaw, a back bumper.But mostly it was a heartwarmingly plain, sincere machine,promising good fun and few breakdowns; the sort of car that, especially in soft yellow, looked like nothing so much as a bar of soap.
Grover patted it as though it were a racehorse.“She’s some gal,” he said, between pats.His diamond ring clanked enthusiastically.Old Chao watched nervously, and when Grover turned, inspected the metal for scratches.
“Beautiful!” Ralph touched the car with one respectful finger.
“How’s the top work?” Grover asked.“Can we get a look?”
Old Chao started to say no, something about how he didn’t like to fold it up when it was wet, but Grover started to clank some more.
“Well, okay.” Old Chao unlocked the door in order to demonstrate how the roof unlatched, how it accordioned.The snaps that held it in place,the cover that fastened over that.“What you think?”
Ralph and Grover oohed.
“You see this?” Old Chao showed them the spare tire, which rode in its own metal case on the rear bumper.Ralph and Grover ahhed.“You want to sit inside?” Opening the door, Old Chao seemed to have forgotten his irritation.
Grover settled into the driver’s seat.Ralph sat beside him.
“How about the radio there?” asked Grover.“Does it work?”
“Sure.” Old Chao reached back into his pocket for the keys.“You got to turn on the engine.”
Ralph and Grover tested the radio, the windshield wipers, the lights.
“What an auto-mo-bile,” said Grover.“You’re one lucky guy.”
“I guess I am,” said Old Chao, a little surprised.
All three of them shook their heads a moment.
“How’d you get so lucky?” asked Grover.“You got a secret?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Nothing you’d care to divulge, huh.”
“I just work hard, you know.”
The car hummed.
“I just do what people tell me, and don’t ask so many questions.” Old Chao said this pointedly; but then as if remembering himself, continued in a more amiable tone.“Maybe that’s the trick.You know, American people,they always ask this, ask that.Not me.”
“When people tell you to hop to it, you hop, hop, hop.”
“That’s right.That’s the Chinese way.Polite.” Something in Grover’s tone seemed to have set Old Chao back on edge.
“When people ask a question, you answer.No fooling around.”
“Right.”
“Hmmm,” said Grover.“How do you release this brake here?”
“Just pull on the handle.” Old Chao answered civilly, modelling his manners.
Grover pulled.
“I wish I have car like this someday,” said Ralph.
“And how do you drive?” asked Grover, hands on the wheel.
“First you put the car in gear,” answered Old Chao.“Then you step on the pedal.”
Grover put the car in gear, then stepped on the pedal.
“Hey! Stop!” called Old Chao as the car sped away.“Not funny! Hey!Not funny!”
By the time he’d started running, though, Grover and Ralph had already turned the corner; all he got for his efforts was the dwindling sound of the pair of them, laughing.
“Maybe we better go home,” said Ralph, after a few minutes.Grover kept driving.“Where are we going?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home,” said Ralph.He explained where he lived.
“You like it there?”
“Some things I like， some I don’t.” Ralph told Grover about Pete the super and Boyboy.[22]
“Hmm，” said Grover then， or at least that’s what Ralph thought he said.He couldn’t hear anymore.Since leaving the traffic on the George Washington Bridge[23] they had sped up； now they were headed straight west， fast.Later Ralph was to notice how Grover loved motion in general and speed in particular — obliterating speeds； and how， just when the rest of the world packed its tools away， at twilight， he seemed to come most alive.He didn’t ever seem to need to see better than he did.
For example， now.The sun was huge and low， directly ahead； it looked like a moongate[24] leading to a fiery garden.Ralph put his visor down.“I can’t see，” he said.“Can you see？” Grover did not answer.How fast were they going？ Ralph squinted， straining to see the speedometer.It seemed to say a hundred miles an hour.Surely not， he thought； though he could barely move， jacketed as he was to his seat by the wind.“We better go home，” he tried to say again.“Where are we going？” And， “I’m cold.”But he could not force his words into the air — shuo bu chu lai， literally.He was captive.What could he do but watch Grover drive？ Ahead， the moongate stretched wide， just as a cloud cover lowered itself out of nowhere.Lower， lower.It hovered above them like an attic ceiling.The town ahead， squashed， became all broad， bright horizon； and when the clouds went gold， it seemed to Ralph that the buildings kindled violently.Such live reds and oranges！ And now， as though on cue， it all turned — in an instant — to writhing cinder.Ralph felt smoldery himself.Yet Grover drove through the whole grand catastrophe undistracted， as though the torching of a place simply did not matter to him， or as though it were no more than some histrionics he’d ordered up.Background， say， for some larger drama.[25]
Ralph watched him closely.Before this, he’d known only two kinds of drivers — the kind who hunched up, both arms bent, pulling on the wheel as though to keep it from retracting into the dashboard; and the kind who sat so far back that in order to drape one casual wrist over the top of the wheel, they had to stiffen their elbows and curve their spines.Grover was neither.He was, rather, a natural driver, for whom the wheel seemed a logical extension of his hands.Anyone would have thought he’d invented the automobile.For how else could it be that he never had to slow down or speed up? He did not move and consider, move and consider, like other drivers, but only moved.As the cinder town began to deepen, cooling to mere scarlet, Ralph began to discern the familiar road again — to reassure himself that they were indeed on an ordinary highway with other cars.It had seemed that they were hurtling down a straight line; actually, though,they were snaking their way through traffic.He began to see that Grover was directing the slither — not by craning his neck and putting on his blinker and swearing, but simply by glancing, passing, glancing, passing.
Then night, the quick pour of roofing tar that changed everything.Still they drove.Ralph marvelled as the stars came out; the car moved so fast, yet they stayed so still.And how many of them there were! He’d never seen so many, he’d never seen such an enormous sky.“What do you say? Don’t see stars like that in the city, now do you.” Grover was speaking.Ralph was surprised how easy it was to hear him.“If you don’t get out for a spin every now and then, you forget all about them.And will you look at those trees.” They were driving through forest.“Look like leaves and branches, right? But every one of them is an opportunity.You just have to see it.” He nodded to himself.
Ralph nodded too.And one truth, he found, led to another: “I’m hungry.” He had hardly eaten anything at Old Chao’s.
“Me too!” Grover boomed his agreement, a buddy and friend.“Ravenous!”
They pulled so smoothly into the diner parking lot that Ralph took a moment to realize they’d stopped.The lot was empty except for one other car.
In the diner they slid into a green vinyl booth.There were no other customers.“Have what you want,” Grover said.“Whatever strikes your fancy.”
“Anything?”
“You like to eat,” he said sagely.“I can tell.”
A freshly painted sign over the counter put closing time at nine-thirty；the clock next to it read nine-twenty-five.Still， the waitress took their order as though she’d be more than glad to stay as long as they liked.Would they like breakfast， lunch， or dinner？[26]
They had dinner, then lunch, then breakfast.
“My treat,” Grover kept saying.“It’s on me.”
Ralph politely began with a hamburger, plain.
“Nothing to drink?”
Ralph shook his head no.
His hamburger arrived.Grover reached across the table and removed the top half of its bun.“Nobody,” he said, “eats a burger naked.” He piled on top ketchup, mustard, relish, a tomato slice from his own cheeseburger super deluxe, a few rings of onion, five French fries.
“That’s good！” Ralph said； and when Grover ordered a black-and-white ice cream soda， Ralph shyly did too.And when Grover ordered a fried clam plate and a Salisbury steak[27]， just for fun， Ralph ordered a list of side dishes — onion rings， potato salad， coleslaw.Plus a chocolate milkshake.“What the heck，” said Grover， approvingly.Ralph laughed.They ate at whim， taking a bite here， a bite there.When their table was full of plates， they moved to another one， where they ordered desserts— apple pie， cherry pie.Black Forest cake.
Ralph groaned.“I’m full.”
Grover roared, “I say we order more!”
“Nonono，” Ralph protested， thinking， fleetingly， Typical American wasteful[28].
But when Grover ordered bacon and eggs, Ralph did too.It was a game.French toast.English muffins.German pancakes.
“We’re going to have to haul it all home，” said Grover， “in a doggie bag[29].”
“A doggie bag!” Ralph laughed.Everything had begun to seem funny.
“What haven’t we ordered,” wondered Grover.
Ralph roared.“Chinese pancakes!” he said.“How come there are no Chinese pancakes!”
“Good point.How astute of you,” Grover burped.
Ralph belched.Grover loosened his belt a notch.Ralph loosened his belt and undid the button of his pants, saying, “Hope the waitress can’t see.”
“And so what if she does?”
“We tell her we’re just get comfortable.”
“We’ll tell her,” winked Grover, “that we’re getting comfortable, so she better watch out.”
Ralph roared again.What an adventure! He pried off his shoes;loosened his collar; slumped in his seat like an opium smoker.He was glad,though, that the waitress was nowhere to be seen; and when Grover,getting restless, suggested that they simply go back into the kitchen to see what was left that they hadn’t tried, Ralph hesitated before padding after him, holding his pants up with his hand.
The waitress reappeared.“Ah,” said Grover.“We were just saying how we were getting comfortable, you’d better watch out.”
“Were you?” To Ralph’s surprise, she did not blush.
Grover caressed her earlobe.“Nice earring you’ve got there.”
She giggled.He pulled her to him.
“What do you say?” Grover winked at Ralph again.“To the kitchen?”Hands on the waitress’s hips, he began to walk her like a puppet in front of him.
“Ah,” said Ralph.Then suddenly polite, “Nononono.”
He drifted back to the dining room alone, buttoning his pants.Flies buzzed over the tables of half-eaten food.One got stuck in some orange pancake syrup.Ralph tried the counter stools, one after another, for squeaks.Then the booths, for spring.In, out.From the kitchen came the sound of pots thrown to the floor.Cronng.Dishes smashing — ack! ackk!asssh! Then laughter.What were they doing that they laughed as they did it? He and Helen never laughed.More dishes.Screeches.He counted the ceiling lights.Then came what sounded like sobbing.Sobbing? Ralph shook his head to himself.Who was going to clean up later? And what about the dishes? And who was going to pay for all the food? Somebody,he thought, was going to have to pay, and though Grover had insisted all along that he would, Ralph began to wonder now if he was going to have to pay too.
He was brooding about whether to call home when Grover emerged,dusting himself off, though he didn’t look dusty.“What a mess,” Grover said.
Ralph heard the metallic scrape of a car starting up outside — the waitress, leaving.
Grover surveyed the dining room.Morose, he examined his hands.“So.” His vest was open, his shirt rumpled and misbuttoned, his carnation wilted.
“So,” said Ralph.
Grover felt his pants pocket for a handkerchief.
Silence.
Finally Ralph asked, “So where you from?”
“From?”
“Your hometown is where?”
“Hometown!” Grover laughed, instantly recovered.“You’ve been here how long? And still asking about people’s hometown.” He shook his head.“I’ll let you in on a secret.In this country, the question to ask is: ‘So what do you do for a living.’ “
“So what you do for a living?”
Grover laughed again.
How did people get so that they could laugh like that? “I’m work on my Ph.D.,” Ralph offered.“My field is engineering.Like Old Chao,except my specialty is so-called mechanics.”
“Is that right.”
“So your field is what?”
“What? Field? My field” — Grover flashed his gold tooth — “is anything.”
“Anything?”
It was almost past understanding: Grover was whole or part owner of any number of buildings and restaurants.A stretch of timberland.“You make a few bucks in one business, then you branch out.” He described mines he was in on, and rigs.A garment factory.A toy store.“What with babies popping out all over, toys are getting to be big business.”
“Whooo,” said Ralph.“That’s a lot.”
“Think so?” Grover preened, straightening his shirt.
“How come you own so many parts of things instead of one big thing?”
“Good question.And the answer, if you understand me, is that that way it’s just a mite harder for people to get a fix on you.”
“I got you.” Ralph nodded.“That’s Chinese way.”
“What?”
“All the Chinese guys, you know, outside they look like they live some lousy place, but inside, beautiful.”
“No kidding.”
“Otherwise government ask them pay tax.”
“It’s the same story here.The government is a pain in the neck.”
“Big pain.Make you be crazy.”
“You know，” said Grover， squinting.“You got some first-class gears twirling around in that upstairs of yours.”[30]
“Think so?” Ralph sat up a little.His waistband pulled.
“I’ll tell you who you remind me of.”
Ralph waited.
“Myself.You remind me of myself, back when I was nobody.”
Slouching again, Ralph twiddled his spoon.
“You know, back then, I worked every lousy job in town, you name it.I was a jack-of-all-trades.I painted houses.I drove cab ...”
No wonder he drove so well! thought Ralph.
“ ...I washed dishes.I even sang in a music show, get that.”
“Show!”
“My authentic Chinese face got me in the door.South Pacific[31]， a local production.You know， ‘Happy talk， keep talkin’， happy talk.’ ”
Ralph clapped.
“That’s what you are in this country， if you got no dough， a singing Chinaman[32].” Grover paused.“True or false？”
“True,” guessed Ralph.
Grover smiled enigmatically.He explained how he got his break —how he kept his eyes open until one day he met this guy who needed somebody he could trust.“We happened to get to talking, just like we’re talking now, and the next thing — bang — I’m a millionaire.A self-made man.What do you think of that?”
“Millionaire! Self-made man!”
“In America, anything is possible.”
“Just from one day, happen to get talking!” Ralph was dazed.“Like we’re talking now.”
“Understand me, I was already the can-do type.”
“Doer type.I got you.”
“I had the correct attitude.Very important.”
“Positive attitude, right? Use imagination?”
“You got it.”
“ ‘I can do all things in Christ who strengthen me,’ ” quoted Ralph.
“Well, I’ll be damned.The engineer’s done some reading.”
“ ‘Prayerize,’ ” said Ralph.
“ ‘Picturize,’ ” said Grover.
“ ‘Actualize.’ ”[33]
Grover slapped his two hands on the table, grinning so that his molars showed.
“A man makes his mind up who he’s going be.” Ralph grinned with his molars too.“So what business was that?”
“What?”
“Your first business, that you became millionaire.”
“That business？” Grover leaned forward conspiratorially.“That was fats and oils.I still have a hand in it.” He explained how his factory took leftover cooking grease from restaurants and turned it into nice， white soap.“We make it smell good， you know？ That’s the important thing， the smell.You can sell anything if it smells right.”[34]
“Interesting.”
“That’s a secret.I’m telling you a secret.”
They went on to other secrets.How a self-made man should always say he was born in something like a log cabin, preferably with no running water.How all self-made men found what they needed to know in bookstores.How he should close some deals with handshakes.
“A couple of big deals.No contract.And favors.Favors are important or the story’s not right.”[35]
Risk was the key to success.Clothes made the man.Ralph wished the night would go on forever.But finally Grover was winding down.“And one last thing.”
Ralph cocked his head, already wistful.
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Eyes open.”
“Keep your ears open.”
“Ears open.”
“Know who you’re dealing with.”
“Know who I’m deal with.”
“And keep moving.” Grover stood up and stretched.“Keep moving.”He seemed to be talking to himself.“I’m going to call us a cab.”
“What about the car?”
“It’s out of gas anyway.”
“The bill,” Ralph said.“The mess.”
“Forget it,” said Grover.“I own this place.” He called a taxi, and when it came — a bright yellow Checker, with a loose muffler — he directed the driver to Ralph’s address first.
“How do you know where I live?”
“By your able description, remember?” He smiled winningly.“Your landlord’s a buddy of mine.”
Ralph gaped.
“You’ll get that new super one of these days.”
They drove home as they’d come， in a deafening wind — Grover had seen to the opening of all four windows.Now， though， instead of magic，what seemed to be flying into the car was everydayness.Grit， chemical smells.As the dark slowly gave way to light， they saw that the day was going to be hazy.Ralph propped his feet up on one of the jump seats， the way Grover had.His bee bite， he noticed， was finally gone.[36] They arrived.Ralph lowered his legs； the jump seat popped right back vertical as though it had already forgotten him.
Grover shook his hand.“Good-by.”
“Thank you.” To his surprise, Ralph felt his eyes begin to tear.“So much you told me, I know you don’t have to.”
“Maybe I took a liking to you.”
“Did you?” Ralph gripped the door handle.“The way your fats and oil boss liked you?”
Grover laughed.“Come on now.Time to call it a night.”
Ralph opened his door.
“But here.My card,” said Grover.
“Thank you.Thank you!”
“Give me a ring.”
“Good-by.” Ralph climbed out.“See you again!”
Who closed the door? It seemed to slam itself shut.Grover leaned back, disappearing from view as the gay yellow cab puttered away, its muffler clattering forlornly after it.Ralph waved at the empty street awhile;even the gas fumes seemed to be evaporating before he was ready.Then his feet turned, and shuffled a few steps, and began climbing the long staircase home.
CHANG-KEES[37]
IN MANDARIN， change is handily expressed： a quick le at the end of the sentence will do it， as in tamen gaoxing le — now they are happy.Everywhere there are limits， but the thin fattens， the cloud clears.What’s dry dampens.The barren bears.[38]
Thankfully！ It had already been nine years since Ralph had touched foot in the United States.Theresa had begun her internship； they had all studied up on the three branches of government[39]， and so advanced from permanent residents to citizens.Ralph and Theresa had sprouted their first white hairs.Helen had developed muscles in her arms after all， it was carrying children that did it.They celebrated Christmas in addition to Chinese New Year’s， and were regulars at Radio City Music Hall[40].Ralph owned a Davy Crockett[41] hat.Helen knew most of the words to most of the songs in The King and I[42]， and South Pacific.It was true that she still inquired of people if they’d eaten yet， odd as it sounded； Ralph invented his grammar on the fly； even Theresa struggled to put her Chinese thoughts into English.But now she had English thoughts too — that was true also.They all did.There were things they did not know how to say in Chinese.The language of outside the house had seeped well inside —Cadillac[43]， Pyrex[44]， subway， Coney Island[45]， Ringling Brothers[46] and Barnum & Bailey Circus[47].Transistor radio.Theresa and Helen and Ralph slipped from tongue to tongue like turtles taking to land， taking to sea；though one remained their more natural element， both had become essential.
And yet feeling truly settled was still a novelty.How easily they woke up now， and with what sense of purpose！ They might or might not have counted themselves happy， though； happiness as they conceived it then was a thing attained， a grand state， involving a fiefdom to survey from the plump comfort of their dotage.It was only in retrospect that they came to call plain heartsease a happiness too； and though they sometimes thought that a shame， other times they thought differently.For if they had been able to nod and smile and say， How unruffled we are， then too， they might have been able to fret， We fear it all ending.Instead， this way， they were all innocence， all planning.They were， as Ralph thought of it， “going up，”every day， with just enough time to take in an occasional movie or ball game， and to be glad that Mona and Callie[48] were happy.
What a life those girls were going to have! Toddling Callie, wobbling Mona; they seemed to be always emerging from under the kitchen table —Callie on a mysterious errand, Mona forever chasing that sister gone around the corner.Helen and Ralph had agreed that they would have a second family in a few years, another two, who with luck would be boys;but in the meantime, Mona and Callie were as soft as their brothers would be, as enigmatic, bullheaded, goofy.They were a lively, durable luxury, to be “love-loved!” as Helen would say, tweaking their feet.She taught them to jiao ren: Though there was only one relative to name, Helen would ask,Who’s that? as Theresa entered the room.And Callie would answer,properly, Gugu! — meaning her father’s sister.Mona would clap.
This was how Callie knew herself to be clever, like Theresa.Everyone said so; she even knew that while her American age was three-and-a-half, her Chinese age was a year more.Mona at one was good-natured, like Helen.
“And which is like me?” Ralph would joke.“Ah?”
“Memememe,” the girls clamored in English.
They climbed over him and pulled at his fingers, his nose, his ears, as if to take them for their own.Mona reached into his mouth for his tongue.
Ralph, jaw agape, laughed.
“Won’t come out,” Callie told her sister.
Still Mona pulled, giggling, until finally Ralph extricated her wet fingers and closed his mouth firmly and bounced her on his knee to distract her.“No tongue,” he scolded.“My tongue not so good anyway.You should go pick Auntie’s.”
Callie, standing, pressed against his other leg.“Am I your little girl?”Her voice was plaintive.
“You are,” Ralph reassured her.“You’re my little girl — and you too.” He hugged Mona, who had begun to twist.“I’m the father, and you both are my little girls.”
“No-o-oo,” Callie said then, singsong, laughing to have set her father up.Mona copied her, in her piping pitch.“No-o.”
“Ye-e-ess,” said Ralph, mimicking them.
“No-o-oo!”
“Ye-e-ess!”
“No-o-oo!”
“Ye-es!” cried Mona, by mistake.
“Mon-a.” Callie tweaked her sister’s foot the way her mother did.“You’re supposed to say ‘No-o-oo!’ ”
“No-o!” said Mona then.
“What’s the racket going on in here?” demanded Helen, coming in.
“No-o-ewww!” yodelled Mona.
They all laughed.
“No! No! No!” Mona was yelping now.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” laughed Helen, and then Theresa was behind her,crying, “Yes! No! Yes! No!”
“No! Yes!” said Ralph.
“Yes! Yes! No! No!” Callie shouted.“Yes! Yes!”
Then everyone was laughing some more， until it was time for supper.Theresa began to talk about moderation， and how too much laughing upset the digestive process， but that was funny too.Even she laughed as she talked； her words meant nothing.They were not like words at all， but like soap bubbles， or like the kisses blown around by a starlet in a motorcade.Was this， finally， the New World？ They all noticed that there seemed to be no boundaries anymore.Helen， for instance， had become friends with Janis again， who had happily given birth to a son， Alexander， about Mona’s age.No one seemed to mind that Old Chao had not only been granted tenure but was now acting chairman of Ralph’s department.And what their super said or hoped didn’t matter any more than the way Helen breathed， or how much Theresa talked.“You know why we used to say typical American good-for-nothing？” Theresa said at supper.“That was because we believed we were good for nothing.”[49]
“Yow mean I thought I was good for nothing.” Ralph could laugh about anything these days.
“Well ...” Theresa tactfully nibbled a slice of stir-fried hot dog.“Anyway, now that you are assistant professor, life has a different look to it,right?”
“Everything looks different.It’s true.” Finishing his rice, Ralph handed his bowl to Helen without so much as glancing her way;absentmindedly, elbow on the table, he awaited its return.He had his hand stretched palm up in the air, like a man trying to determine whether it was drizzling.
“I must confess something then,” said Theresa.“Do you remember that scholarship that was cancelled?”
“Your scholarship?”
“It wasn’t cancelled.I just told you that to make you feel better.”
Ralph’s forearm thudded to the table.Helen gingerly placed his steaming bowl in front of it.“Well, it did make me feel better,” he acknowledged finally.
“Also Helen has something to tell you,” said Theresa.“About the furnace.”
“Ah, nonono!” said Helen.
“What furnace?” said Ralph.
Helen turned her attention to Mona.“Open wide — good girl!” Mona poked one finger in either nostril as Helen fed her.
“Eh?” said Ralph.“Something else you didn’t tell me?”
“Uh oh.” Callie, precocious master of the helpful disturbance,knocked her chopsticks to the floor.“Took the elevator.”
“I’ll get it.” Theresa ducked under the table.
“Anyway, I don’t mind,” said Ralph.
“Now that you are an assistant professor, I didn’t think you would,”said Theresa, feeling among the shoes.
“Just like now that you are a medical doctor, you mind less that you have no husband, right?”
Ralph’s tone was teasing; still Helen held her breath until Theresa surfaced, brandishing the retrieved chopsticks.“I mind less, it’s true.Anyway, since I have a home here, why should I have another one?”
“No reason,” they all agreed.“No reason!”
“If she marries, she will bring the man come live with us,”proclaimed Helen.
“Sit here,” Ralph joked, pulling up a chair.
“Ya-aa-ay!” cheered Mona and Callie.
“Family member means not allowed to leave.” Ralph wagged his finger at the girls.
“We are family,” echoed Helen.
“Team，” said Ralph.“We should have name.The Chinese Yankees.Call Chang-kees for short.” [50]
“Chang-kees!” Everyone laughed.
Ball games became even more fun.Theresa explained how the Yankees had lost the Series[51] to the Dodgers[52] the year before； they rooted for a comeback.“Let’s go Chang-kees！” This was in the privacy of their apartment， in front of their newly bought used Zenith TV[53]； the one time they went to an actual game， people had called them names and told them to go back to their laundry.[54]
They in turn had sat impassive as the scoreboard.Rooting in their hearts, they said later.Anyway, they preferred to stay home and watch.“More comfortable.” “More convenient.” “Can see better,” they agreed.
These were the same reasons Ralph advocated buying a car.
“Seems like someone’s becoming one-hundred-percent Americanized,” Theresa kidded.
“What’s so American? We had a car, growing up.Don’t you remember?” Ralph argued that in fact this way they could avoid getting too Americanized.“Everywhere we go, we can keep the children inside.Also they won’t catch cold.”
“I thought we agreed the children are going to be American,” puzzled Helen.
Ralph furrowed his brow.When Callie turned three they had decided that Mona and Callie would learn English first, and then Chinese.This was what Janis and Old Chao were planning on doing with Alexander; Janis didn’t want him to have an accent.For Ralph and Helen, it was a more practical decision.Callie had seemed confused by outside people sometimes understanding her and sometimes not.Playing with other children in the park, she had several times started to cry, and once or twice to throw things; she had lost a doll this way, and a dragon.Also, one grabby little boy had, in an ensuing ruckus, lost some teeth.
“Not a lot of teeth,” Helen tried to tell his mother.
Now Ralph drummed his fingers.He stopped and smiled.“And what better way to Americanize the children than to buy a car!”
Theresa laughed.“Plus this way they won’t catch cold, right?”
“Health is very important,” put in Helen.
“And,” said Ralph, “it so happens Old Chao is selling his, to buy a new one.”
“Ahh!” said Theresa.“But since when do friends sell each other cars?”
“Dear Older Sister.Please allow me to explain —”
“I know.This isn’t China.”
“So smart,” said Ralph.
MYSTERY
WHERE in himself had he found it， after everything he’d been through， to try Grover’s line once more？ What had he been thinking？ Who was he？ It was years before Ralph even knew to ask himself those questions； and then it was only to find that he didn’t know their answers —that his own nature eluded his grasp， like a solid sublimating straightaway，from between his fingers， to gas.What could be more frustrating？ Why try？It was a uniquely low return enterprise.And yet he found that in America，in practical， can-do， down-to-earth America， he had much company in this activity — that a lot of people wondered who they were quite seriously，some of them for a living.[55] It was an industry.This astonished him.In China， people had worried more about being recognized； even here， if Helen were snubbed， she might sigh， “Of course， he did not realize who we are.” Who we are being so many hard facts held like candies or coins，just up one’s sleeve — one’s father， one’s mother， all the things that might quaintly be termed one’s station.This was useful information in a terraced society[56].How should people treat each other？ How expect to be treated？In close quarters， relationships count so heavily that to say something has no relationship in Chinese — mei guanxi[57] — is to mean， often as not， it doesn’t matter.In spread-out America， though， this loose-knit country，where one could do as one pleased， a person had need of a different understanding.Ralph needed to know what his limits were， and his impulses， what evil and what good he had it in his soul and hands to fashion.
Instead, he got mystery for his pains, more and more mystery.It wasn’t fair.It wasn’t right.How could his own motoring heart, with its valves and pressure systems, turn out an unknowable thing? He had always understood the world to be only part engineering; he’d always understood there to be another, murkier sphere.But he had always pictured them as somehow adjoining.Organized.Earth and heaven.Down below,verities; up above, mist.How could it be that bright fact and cloudy mystery were actually all mixed up, helter-skelter, together? And in him!Even in his own breast, his own brain, just as in the chaotic world outside.Some days he saw mystery everywhere, in earthworms and holly trees and basset hounds, and the inexplicability of even the simplest life so angered and stupefied him that he almost resented any balancing elucidation.He did not care to know how many female holly trees a single male could bring to berry.He did not care to know the odds of a basset hound developing swayback, or by what process part of an earthworm could make itself whole.
Still, of their own accord — mysteriously! — certain realizations emerged, as if they too had a life, a schedule urging them into the realm of conscious knowledge.For instance, Ralph realized that if he had not called Grover, if he had not remembered the number, if no one had answered, he probably would not have landed up a pondering sort of person.If Helen or Theresa had walked into the room as he was talking, so that he had had to hang up, he probably would sit around less.His daughters would never have presented him with a copy of Calorie Counters, the 1-2-3 Way to an All-New You.If the telephone had not yet been invented, his sister would still be knocking at the door when she heard him sneeze.Why did he call?Before he made that call, he would have said he was a man who aspired to peace, and rest.Before he made it, he would have said that he yearned for a larger tenure than any department could grant; to go with his professional tenure, a sort of life tenure.He wanted simply to stay put.No more scrambling! He wanted to laze away the afternoon at a dumpling house,sip plum juice by a green pond flickering with orange-and-white carp.Or,well, he would have settled for iced tea, anyway, by a crabgrass-free lawn with a sprinkler leaning one direction, then the other, charmingly indecisive.Hadn’t he once wished, achingly, ardently, only that no revolution should ever take his wife from him?
But then he took his own wife， his own family， his job， his house， and gambled as though they were nothing to him， as though his whole life were nothing to him — as though， indeed， his whole life weren’t his.What sort of thing was that for his father’s son to do？ So reckless！ He hadn’t done anything so completely wrong since he fell in love with Cammy[58]；didn’t that seem like a lifetime ago now.And yet， that lifetime was a kind of scale model for what followed.He saw that.He saw how then， as later，he strode away from his family， only to discover that he could not return.He saw how he had hated his father and sister both.If only he had known how to at once hate and love them！ If only he had been capable of more than nostalgia！
A chastened man， an older man， he remembered[59]：
All summer, to begin with, he felt elated.The department had approved his tenure, the College of Engineering had approved it, the university had approved it.He took the family to a picnic of the Society of Chinese Engineers — something he’d always avoided before — and ate tea eggs.He played horseshoes.He laughed at the jokes and swore at the mosquitoes and liked everyone.Everyone! Some people talked of nothing but China; others of nothing but America.Some had houses, some didn’t.Some spoke Shanghainese.Ralph listened to them all whether he understood their dialect or not.
Then he went on vacation.It was the first vacation he had taken since coming to America, and he felt as though he had discovered the whole idea of an earth that from time to time nestled closer to the sun, as though the pleasures of a cottage, a seafood shack, a bluff high above the water, of children flapping their ball-and-stick arms at curtain-winged gulls, all began in him, all grew out of his tremendous accomplishment.He felt a secret kinship with the ocean.Mornings, he would stand mid-thigh in the surf and feel he understood its power, that he understood greatness — that he was neither fooled by its easy majesty nor afraid of its violence.He still did not know how to swim, but that summer he taught himself how to float on his back; he spent so much time rocking in the water, feeling the swells pass under him like wheels in endless travel, rolling and rolling, that he turned brown as a peasant.On just one side — Helen and Theresa, huddled in long-sleeved shirts and polka-dot sun hats under the additional shade of a beach umbrella, laughed at him.They called him half-cooked, half-black,half-and-half.A mix-up.An open-faced sandwich.He didn’t mind.He taught Mona and Callie to float too; all three of them bobbed out there like rafts, together.Also he taught the girls how to make their sand castles more realistic (down along the moats they put in windows for a boiler room),and when he got home he announced he was going to teach Helen and Theresa to drive.
“To drive?” At first they didn’t know what to think.Then they were excited and anxious to prove fast learners.
“Don’t watch the houses,” Ralph told Helen.“Pay attention to where you’re headed.”
“Stay in your lane,” he lectured Theresa.“Watch you don’t get yourself killed.”
He taught proudly, like a great professor, a professor everyone agreed deserved his tenure.When they did well, he praised them.When they did poorly, he encouraged them to do better.That summer he taught a neighbor how to change the stresses on his garage frame so the door wouldn’t stick.He taught the newspaper boy a way of folding the paper so that it wouldn’t unroll when he threw it.He taught Callie that when she added, she should stack the numbers one on top of the other.He taught Mona that she should always hold books right side up.
Then September， time to teach some more.His very first class with tenure， due to a shortage of space， was in a tower.A tiny room， with exposed pipes.How could it be？ So high up， and yet the room was like a basement.Halfway through his opening remarks， he found himself figuring from the way the pipes ran that there was a bathroom upstairs.A bathroom in a tower？ An odd design， a bad design.And at the end of class，more bad design — he discovered that it was hard to get out of the tower.The stairs were so narrow， that with more students coming up， his had to file down one at a time.They waited patiently in the doorway， like a pool of backed-up water.It seemed to Ralph that there was no air in the room.And wasn’t it hot？ He wanted to ask one of the students， a pallid twitch of a boy， if it was hot.But instead he asked， “Are you on so-called engineering track？” If you are， get off！ he wanted to say.Of course， he didn’t.He mopped his brow as he signed the boy’s slip.Another slip.Humid too， he thought.Wasn’t it？ As the professor， he was the last one down the stairs.How glad to escape！ How relieved to see the open （if stony） sky！ And how chagrined to discover， squinting at his schedule in the breezeway， that for his next class he had that same room again.What a semester it was going to be！ All he could think of， as he headed back in，was what his father used to say about people lost in narrow， dead-end specialties—that they had crawled into the tip of a bull’s horn[60].
Now he stared once again at the pale green pipes.He stared at the students; this fresh batch looked suspiciously like the one that had just left.Doubts thronged him.Should he have gone into space research after all?Maybe he should have gone to work for a firm.He heard himself droning.The first day of a new school year, and already everything seemed old.
The pipes, he noticed, shaded to powdery gray on top — dust.
“Excuse me, Professor Chang, could you repeat your office hours?”
Professor Chang.That still gave him a lift.He, Ralph Chang, a professor! And now, with tenure.He obligingly repeated his office hours,throwing in his office address for good measure, as a way of reminding himself that he had a nice new half office, with a window.Tenure.What a pulse-quickening idea to the nontenured! Too bad, though, that he was going to have to live down the hall from Old Chao for the rest of his life.Clear from China they’d come, a whole country to settle in; who could believe they’d find themselves sharing a soda machine? Every time Ralph saw Old Chao, he seemed to be orbiting the halls over his ever more significant findings.Maybe he was just trying to steer the conversation away from Theresa.Still — while Old Chao worked on turbulence, Ralph lectured on about all that had been exciting and important and new in the nineteenth century.Gears.Stresses.Torques.
“Excuse me, Professor Chang? Could you repeat ...”
Could he.A good question.And how many times?
Dust on the pipes!
On the way home, although the sky had sobered to a duty-stiff gray,Ralph decided to put the top of his car down.As he hadn’t done this in a long while (the mechanism had grown cranky with age), it excited him.The street bustle excited him too, as he drove, and though he could feel the damp grit of the city lodging in his skin and clothes — mister, it was great to be out and around! If his job was the dead-end tip of a bull’s horn, the city was the bull.So giant! So clangorous—such screeching, rumbling,blaring, banging! Such hiss! Everything buzzed, in a blink things changed,the mind boggled at the striving that went on in a single block.So much ambition! No equation could begin to describe it all.So many people,aiming to do so many things besides lecture about crack stress to blinking undergraduates, that after five minutes he found himself gratefully focusing on the red light in front of him, a headache coming on.He helmeted himself in abstractions.The greatness of America! he thought.Freedom and justice for all! The light changed.It began to drizzle.Now he noticed how bedraggled some of the men looked up close.Some of the women too, but mostly he noticed the men, how they hunched their shoulders, how they stood their short collars against the fine lines of rain.One tattered fellow collapsed in a doorway.He had a brown knit cap pulled all the way down over his eyes and nose; his jaws chattered uncontrollably.
Ralph drove on, feeling his good fortune.Freedom and justice for all,the greatness of America, but a man living in a country sending satellites into space could still land up a heap in a doorway.How was that? He genuinely wondered, even as he estimated himself to fall in the top twenty percent of the general population, careerwise.He felt himself to know things that other people didn’t, that he could tell just by looking who was going up, who was going down, who was suffering through.At each stoplight, his gaze would light on someone — a brooding beatnik, a determined shopper — and he would have to fight down an urge to shout that he saw them.He saw them! The fine lines of rain had thickened, but he didn’t want to stop to put the roof up; and so he didn’t, even when his car hood began to drum loudly.Afraid of a little water? Not him.
A downpour.Still he drove.People on the sidewalks were holding newspapers over their heads, like little roofs.He turned onto the highway,speeding away from the city.Though his clothes were soaking through,though water whipped the back of his neck, though his face dripped, he continued his escape from the classroom out to the suburbs, land of greater promise.
Only to discover, as he approached, that the towns seemed box-like,and overtidy.He disliked their small-change sense of order.When he slowed, he saw that people took notice of him driving in the rain with the top down.This made him uncomfortable enough that finally, before he came to the many-eyed cluster of shops closest to his house, he stopped by the reservoir to put the top back up.How wet everything was! The seats were soggy; his leather briefcase had dulled and darkened; there was a pool in each of the four footwells of the floor.He yanked at the roof.Water piped out from the accordion folds.The mechanism was stiff; between the wet vinyl and his raw hands, he could only get it to straighten halfway before it stuck.Struggling, he pinched a finger, which bled pink in the rain.He gave up.But then he couldn’t get the roof to fold back down, either.Pull as he might, it remained a luminous rising in the twilit air, like a stairway to nowhere, or the headless incarnation of a jack-in-the-box.
Could he drive the car like that? Would the wind snap the roof off?What Ralph needed was an oil can — which, of course, if he did things the right way, he would have.Anyway, he decided to walk home and get one;it wasn’t far, if he cut through the woods.He was wearing his good shoes,it was true, but he didn’t care.So he reported to class in ruined shoes, so what? What would Old Chao do if he saw them, hit the roof on his way into outer space?
Though it was almost dark, he could see pretty well by the light reflected off the reservoir.When he turned away from the water, though,he was surprised how much darker it got.
Creaking.
He’d taken the girls on this path before.Buddied up to the other side of the reservoir was a small hill, where children went sledding in the winter.But how different the path was without snow! With snow, it was level.Now it was treacherous with tree roots.His feet turned capricious,slipping off at odd angles.Sometimes a heel would touch ground first,other times it would be a toe, or an arch.His weight was always in the wrong place, every step such a jolt that after a while he found himself feeling his way forward, not picking his feet up at all.He told himself,They’re opportunities, those trees, every one of them.Opportunities for what, though? Paper.Houses.It was such hard work to imagine houses here that the idea of them became itself a kind of roof, with walls.How dangerous could these woods be, anyway? He was no more than a quarter of a mile from the road, he figured; it only seemed more.How had it gotten so black out? His own two hands at arm’s length looked menacing.He tried to remember what he’d heard, once, about attacks in these woods.
Attacks of what?
Heart attacks, he joked to himself.
Was that a rustle?
He stopped.In the distance he could hear the whhuz-whhuz of cars;nearer in, the pt-pt-pt of the rain.The rain was abating.Good, he’d had enough of being undaunted by water.He started moving again.
That was a rustle.
He froze.
He never did find out what it was, that black swaying in the all-but-black path.It might have been a dog, or a raccoon, or an opossum,or a skunk, or a porcupine, or it might have been something more dangerous.Whatever it was, it stopped dead silent in front of him.Ralph pictured teeth.His heart kicked.What now? A breeze picked up; burdened leaves poured their watery hearts out to him as he tried to xiang banfa —to think of a way out of his predicament.
Another rustle.
He considered climbing a tree.
Above him, the sky seemed to lighten.
Then, as the animal lumbered away, a sudden white glare switched on full in his face, shocking as a blow; the moon loomed so low and large that it almost seemed to have abandoned the sky for a roll on the field just ahead of him.He dazedly blinked.Before him now lay the path, illumined;and when he turned, he saw that the world that had been darkness was returned to him, magnificent in deep blues and grays and black, streaked gold.Enormous clouds were blowing by, a spectral procession.
What had he done， to be delivered out of every trouble？ No matter.In the elegant way of innocent men， he accepted his gift graciously.He felt how his suit hung on him， sodden and heavy； still， he was happy.Stars were coming out — now one， now two， now three — for him.He remembered： If you don’t get out for a spin every now and then， you forget all about them.Anything is possible.A man is what he makes up his mind to be.[61]
He felt his mind open, open, open.
FAITH
RALPH’S HEART launched up like a rocket.“I’m coming! I’m coming!” he exclaimed as Helen wound up her account.Helen said Theresa had asked for him.“I’ll be right there!”
But how could he face his sister? No sooner had he banged the phone down than his limbs turned so heavy he could hardly stand up.Still he set himself to it, answering gravity, a man.Such happy news, after all.He reminded himself of this.Such amazing news! It was hard to take in.Someone might as well have told him that he had died.Until he pictured Theresa alive; then a sense of unutterable good fortune settled over him.Hidden pleats of his spirit expanded.She was alive.Alive, alive, alive!Now this was a miracle, this was a gift.
Once, as a child, he had slid too quickly off his end of a seesaw.He remembered now how his sister hurtled to the ground; how she lay on her side like an upturned vase.Then she righted herself.They trod back to the house silently, along the path they knew better than anything anyone had ever taught them.He remembered how the gravel crunched underfoot,how they hopped the first step onto the bridge.Their footsteps beat then,on the wood, as though on the skin of an old, deep drum; they stamped to augment the effect, and swung their arms, and on the other side gave a two-footed jump back onto the gravel, running the rest of the way.Through the giant peonies, elaborately staked; racing.His sister won, of course; and at the end they dug up some stones they’d buried the day before.These were just to hold—cool to the touch, though the day was hot.He remembered holding the stones to his cheek, murmuring with pleasure;his sister did it too.
Such was the simplicity of childhood, he thought now—events vanished, wordless.He draped a scarf around his neck, his elation fading.This time, an adult, he would have to say something.He would have to find words.But what words? As he left the apartment, he felt as if he were wearing a great animal of a winter coat.In fact, he did have on a coat—outside it was snowing wildly—and the coat was quite heavy.But his bones seemed to bend under the load, and that was odd; he could imagine a photoelastic image of them, all stress lines.If only he could take the coat off! He searched for his hat in slow motion.His keys.He patted his pants, feeling for his wallet.His stomach clenched.Such happy news!
As Helen had driven to the hospital, Ralph had to take a cab.Outside,he realized that he should have called one from the apartment, but he was reluctant to go back in; to go back in would seem somehow to be making no progress.Instead, then, he raised his weighty arm.Earlier in the day, the snow had been delicate as dandelion puffs; the flakes had perched on top of each other with abandon and ease.But since that time, the storm had turned so sodden that it did not seem like snow at all that was showering,so much as something industrial—some unnatural tonnage dumped without permit out of the sky.Cars skidded.Behind the iced windows,drivers gripped their wheels, swearing.Ralph’s hat molded itself to his head.Cold masked his face.
No one stopped.
His coat stiffened around him, a prison.
What escape was possible？ It seemed to him at that moment， as he stood waiting and waiting， trapped in his coat， that a man was as doomed here as he was in China.Kan bu jian.Ting bu jian.He could not always see， could not always hear.He was not what he made up his mind to be.A man was the sum of his limits； freedom only made him see how much so.America was no America.Ralph swallowed.[62]
And yet even as he embraced that bleak understanding, on this, the worst day of the winter, he recalled something he’d seen on the worst day of the worst heat wave of the summer.This memory was one of watching—of peeking out his bedroom window to see what Theresa and Old Chao were up to.How hot it was that afternoon! He had wanted to know when he could come out.So he’d snuck a look: and there they were,floating on twin inflatable rafts, in twin blue wading pools of water.Spinning around and around, like airplane propellers.Theresa lay on her stomach, Old Chao on his back.Both sipped at lemonade, through straws.“Join us! Join us!” they cried, giddy, to his wife.
On the patio, Helen laughed.“Whose idea was this?”
“His idea.”
“No, hers! It was hers.”
“His!”
“Hers!”
“Not true!” Theresa splashed Old Chao.
Old Chao sat up, bobbing, preparing for retribution.“Watch out,” he warned teasingly, his hand cupped.
Were these people he knew？ Ralph had watched the water fight with sadness in his heart， never guessing the scene would one day hearten him，as it did now.Shuo bu chu lai.Who could begin to say what he meant，what had happened， what he’d done？ And yet Ralph held his arm up in the snow all the same， thinking how he hadn’t even known Theresa owned a bathing suit.An orange one！ Old Chao’s was gray， a more predictable choice.[63]