The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [13]
Mama, why can’t I—
They killed Wang Huili’s mother, his father hisses. They took her off a bus on Zhongshan Lu and beat her to death in the street.
The boy’s hands drop to his sides. He has never heard his father talk like this: like a street vendor would say it.
They don’t know us, his mother whispers. Her hair has fallen back in front of her face, and the boy notices now that it is streaked with ash gray. We’re not important enough. Why should we act afraid?
Put the pin back on, his father whispers. Go out there with your sister and salute.
Minutes later, his face again pressed against the window, he hears the familiar snick-snick of his mother’s sewing scissors, the tearing sound, and he realizes she is cutting her hair.
That night the Guards sleep crammed together on the floor of their compartment and in the corridor outside.
The next time she appears it is late afternoon, and he is on his last customer of the day. Lao Jiang’s granddaughter has already come from school; he can hear her following him around the shop with little shuffling steps, asking question upon question. He answers her patiently: This is wild ginseng. This is deer antler. This is pink ginger. At this rate, Chen thinks, she’ll be a Chinese doctor before she leaves primary school.
Would you like some tea?
I’m fine. Thanks.
You are tired, he says. You should take a rest.
It’s hot, she says. I always forget how early the weather changes. April in Hong Kong is worse than August where I come from.
And your work?
She allows the silence to linger while he folds clean sheets and drops them into a basket between his knees.
Slow, she says. Very slow.
He stands and slaps the massage table cushion with his palm. Maybe I help, he says. Lie down.
No, no. Thank you, Mr. Chen. I don’t need it.
Of course no need. I only give very poor massage. But maybe you enjoy. All this time you come here, and not even once you want to try?
A long, whispering sigh. The chair creaks as she stands.
Lie on your back, he tells her. He takes a hand towel, spreads it across her forehead, and puts his fingers to her temples. Fascinating, he thinks. Like touching a television screen: her skin crackles with energy. He makes gentle circles next to her eyes and smooths the creases in her forehead.
Tell me about your home place. Tell me about Oklahoma.
She laughs softly. You really want to know? It’s very boring.
I ask question, yes?
She takes a long breath and exhales. I don’t know if I can explain it. It’s like Mongolia. Very flat, with only grass prairies. No mountains, no trees, no big rivers. Very dry, very windy. Not many people live there. You could say it’s like the frontier: bianjie. Only in the middle of the country.
And you live in small town?
About ten thousand. For Oklahoma that’s medium-size.
What kind of work they have? They have farms?
Oil, she says. They have wells that take oil out of the ground. Well, they did have them. Now there isn’t much of anything. The economy changed, and the price went down, and everybody went bankrupt all at once. It’s a very sad place.
Because now everybody poor.
Because they didn’t do anything about it. They knew what was going to happen. And they kept spending their money. You see a lot of houses with four-car garages and only one little Toyota inside. Those people let themselves be victims. She takes another breath. I told you, Mr. Chen. It’s sad, but it isn’t interesting.
Maybe when you return be different.
Oh no, she says. I’d never go back there. Not in a thousand years.
Turn over, he says. He lays the towel across her shoulder blades and works his fingers between them. Her spine is so taut he can almost hear it hum. Four-car garage, he thinks. He imagines the dimensions of a car, and the dimensions of his room. Amazing. To own all of that space and keep it empty.
Soon finish, he says. Then you let me take a little rest.
Of course, she says quickly. I’m sorry. I’ve taken too long.
Bie keqi. I think it good for you. His fingers make long, soft strokes along her back. Old fool, he thinks,