Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [203]
Your mother, eighth day of the eleventh month of the twenty-seventh year of the Republic, Spur-On Village
Year twenty-nine of the Republic (1940)
Vancouver, British Columbia
Kam Ho got up in the morning and went to make coffee. In the kitchen, he glanced out the window at the cherry tree. Almost all its leaves had fallen but he saw some small red dots and went out into the garden to look. The tree had suddenly grown a slender new branch and a few buds had sprouted. He cut the branch off, put it in a vase and carried it in and up the stairs for Mrs. Henderson.
At the foot of the stairs, he bumped into Mr. Henderson, who was on his way out to walk the dog. “Good morning!” Kam Ho greeted him. “Did ma’am sleep well?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt foolish. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson had had separate bedrooms for a number of years now.
Mr. Henderson did not reply, just peered at the vase in Kam Ho’s hand. “You’re not going home next weekend. I’m taking you to White Rock to do some fishing.”
Kam Ho had gone fishing a few times with Mr. Henderson and had discovered that the head of the family was a poor fisherman—impatient and clumsy. Mr. Henderson’s real reason for going off with a mountain of tackle was to get away from home and spend a bit of time outdoors. He reminded Kam Ho of a small boy ditching school. Kam Ho hesitated, then said: “Then there’ll be no one at home. Ma’am.…” Mr. Henderson shook his head resignedly: “Of course.…” Kam Ho watched him walk away with the dog, and was struck by how doddery he was getting as the years went by.
By the time Kam Ho went into her room, Mrs. Henderson was awake and staring blankly at the ceiling. Kam Ho drew her hands out from under the covers and began to untie the cords which bound her wrists. All the muscle tone had gone and they were as slack as hot-water dough, which made things much more difficult for Kam Ho.
Since Jenny died, Mrs. Henderson had been alternately confused and lucid. As time passed, her moments of lucidity grew shorter and shorter; her bouts of confusion, on the other hand, lasted longer and longer. She frequently scratched her own face though she seemed to feel no pain. She explained that she was trying to dig out Jenny’s eyes. Every evening before bedtime, Kam Ho tied her wrists together.
Kam Ho saw a row of red pea-sized blotches on Mrs. Henderson’s wrists and guessed that she had had a restless night. He brought the vase close so that she could see the cherry blossom buds. “It looks like it’s going to snow any moment, yet they’re opening up. Isn’t that strange?” he said.
Mrs. Henderson ignored the flowers and buried her face in Kam Ho’s hair. “Jimmy, I can hear a shushing sound.” “It’s probably the coffee boiling,” said Kam Ho. She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s your grey hairs growing.” Kam Ho smiled despite himself. “What you mean is I’m forty years old, and a Chinese man is old at forty. I should be a grandfather by now.”
“But you’re not a father yet.” Mrs. Henderson touched his face gently. “Your son died.”
The family back home had kept the news of Yiu Kei’s death from Kam Ho, but in the end he had heard about it anyway, from a fellow countryman who had gone home on a visit. He had never seen his son except in photographs which his mother sent. His son had been dependent on Kam Ho for all his needs, but had no hold on his affections. By the time the news reached his ears, Yiu Kei had been dead for nearly a year and Kam Ho had felt scarcely more than a few moments’ sadness. But Mrs. Henderson’s caress brought it all back to him and he felt a stab of grief for which he was not prepared.
“My Jenny can be his companion,” said Mrs. Henderson.
Kam Ho was startled. This was the