The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [98]
“Perhaps,” she said neutrally.
The room seemed to lighten; it was permissible to hope. “I think he’s a good man, but how can I know?”
“I, too, believe he’s a good man.” Mother unfolded the curved sleeves of the blouse. “He has a good heart and is a strong man of God. His evenhanded character could temper your spirit. With your enthusiasm and ambition and his thoughtful ways, it’s an excellent balance.”
I tied the blouse closed with a single looped knot, trailing my fingers down the ends. Mother brushed my shoulders to soften the creases. “It’s a good match. And Cook is right, you’ve grown taller.”
“Have I?” I could’ve been six years old.
“Eat your breakfast and keep your heart open,” she said, leaving the room. “I’ll check that your shoes are clean.”
I ate quickly and scoured my teeth. I put a dot of lipstick on each cheek and carefully blended it in. The remainder of the morning was spent straightening the already tidy women’s quarters to steady my mind, which was running in circles of dread, hope, fear and excitement. Mother said to sit still or I’d wrinkle my clothes. I dusted off the Chinese-English phrasebook from its niche and scanned randomly through its pages. I began a two-page conversation titled “The Value of Fresh Water,” amused to read about Willie and his father earnestly discussing the merits of drinking clean and pure water. I flipped to the back of the book and spent the remainder of the morning trying to make sense of such aphorisms as “penny-wise and pound foolish,” “fine words butter no parsnips,” and gave up when I chanced upon “happy is the bride that the sun shines on.”
When the actual sun rose well above the bamboo, I greeted Father and sat with him to wait for Calvin Cho. He peered over his book and said sporadically, “Too much red on your cheeks … A decent man … We shall see.” He cleared his throat often in his deep digestive way.
After Mr. Cho had spent a respectable ten minutes saying hello to my parents, Mother nudged us to the gardens. I carried a bundle packed with a padded jar of precious hot tea, hand towels, a stacked bento box carrying tiny dumplings, steamed balls of fish, rice rolled in seaweed and a single perfect persimmon with a bamboo knife. That one fruit had probably cost as much as everything else. Of course my mother knew that I would give it entirely to him. Embarrassed by the luxurious food, I wondered what had been sacrificed.
By the time the house was out of sight, we’d discussed the weather and much of the surrounding flora. He did most of the talking, which made it easy for me to conceal my anxiety. I wondered if talkativeness was his antidote to nervousness. The sky shone translucent blue, dotted with high, dry clouds, and the air was balmy and fragrant with occasional perfect breezes. His comments about the gardens were followed by a stiff silence. It seemed to be my turn to say something, but all I could think about was how tangled and knotted my tongue felt. I remembered he was going to America, and asked, “How many cities will you—” at the same time he said, “What do you think about—,” and our laughter released some of our formality and discomfort.
“You first,” he said, mirth in his eyes.
“How many cities in America will you see?”
“In three years of study, perhaps I’ll see ten. I’m very eager to visit New York City. Perhaps someday you’d like to visit New York?”
“Oh, yes!” I immediately blushed and lowered my head to diminish my outburst.
“Why, perhaps one day you will,” he said easily. “I’ll write and tell you about what I see and learn. Then you can decide for yourself if you’ll come. May I do that?”
“Yes, thank you.” My heart jumped inexplicably against my ribs. Was it the idea of foreign travel or something else that made me feel as if I’d swallowed a bucket of air? “Three years abroad! Won’t your family miss you?” I refused to guess what his appraising look sought, and gripped the picnic bundle to arrest a strange tingling in my fingers.
“I’ve been