Death of a Perm Sec

by Wong Souk Yee

  “So, do you still want to live here?” he asks methodically, having rehearsed the question many times.

  “What?”

  “If you’re so unhappy living with my parents, you can go.”

  Her anger gives her the strength to lift herself from her leaden stupor and carry herself with dignity for the first time in her marriage. “Are you suggesting a divorce?”

  “Yes.”

  This is it, she tells herself. This is what everything has been building up to—the stoic face, the non-involvement in family tiffs, the over-protection of the kids, the cessation of unsolicited advice. Their six years and two children together count for nothing. She has become a blistering sore on his erstwhile smooth face. He wants to have a new skin. And he can’t care less how she feels. She is sure that he would still wear that damned face of his when he is looking at her dead body. In a perverse way, this is one good thing that has come out of the whole damned farce. She sees him for the cold and calculating machine he is. He had never hidden it from her. It was she who had been blinded by what she thought was her good luck.

  “Damn you Michael Chin. May you burn in hell.”

  She flings open the wardrobe, throws some clothes into a suitcase and storms out of the house, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

  TWENTY

  HOONG GETS UP before the clock screams at six. She turns off the alarm and tiptoes down to the kitchen so as not to disturb Mary-Joan, her mother’s maid. She puts the kettle on and spreads four slices of white bread with margarine and peanut butter. She stirs a dribble of milk into her instant coffee and eats her breakfast standing, as she peels and slices a cucumber and a carrot. She drinks her coffee, slaps the two remaining slices of bread together and places it in a lunch box with the salad. Then she wipes down the bench and begins to wash up.

  “Hoong, so early you’re up.” Her mother, also in her pyjamas, frowns as she enters the kitchen.

  “Ya. School starts at 7.30.”

  “Aiyah, leave it to Mary-Joan to wash lah.”

  “It’s okay. Just a few dishes.”

  “No need to work so hard lah. We still got some money.” Mrs Chow would rather be punished in the 18th level of hell than see her daughter flung from her castle to the hard ground. And when it comes to callous husbands, Mrs Chow knows only too well they are no different from a life sentence.

  “It’s not so bad. I like to teach,” Hoong says softly.

  “You listen to me, Hoong. Go back to Michael. You still have your two children you know. How can you play play with such things?”

  “Ma, you listen to me. I’m not going back to Michael and I will fight for custody.”

  “You can’t win them. You think Michael’s father will let you have his grandchildren?”

  Hoong puts the mug and plate on the rack and dries her hands with the tea towel. “Don’t worry, Ma.” She patters up the stairs and has a quick shower.

  When she is downstairs again in her teacher’s gear of sleeveless blouse, cotton pants and a big canvas bag of exercise books, her mother is waiting for her with her lunch box.

  “Come home for lunch. Don’t eat at the school canteen so much,” Mrs Chow says as she places the lunchbox into the canvas bag.

  “How about fresh milk for me from Cold Storage like you used to do?” Hoong teases as she walks to the door. If only she could go back to her schoolgirl days when she was loved and protected by all the adults around her, when all she needed to do were schoolgirl things and everything was safe and sound. When a huge cake with candles on her birthday made her very happy, and two new frocks a year made her life worth living.

  Her mother sighs. “I don’t know what to say. How did the family become like that?”

  “Forget it, Ma. We are not so bad. Think of the people in Bangladesh and India.”

  Mrs Chow holds her daughter’s bony arm. “Look at you. Have to wake up even before the cock crow to go to work. Before you have two maids to order around.”

  Hoong pulls her arm away and puts on her flat court shoes at the door. “I’m going to see Ming after work.”

  “Ask him to come home more often to eat,” Mrs Chow calls after her daughter.

  Hoong walks out to East Coast Road and waits for the bus, the canvas bag in one hand and a Louis Vuitton in the other. In the early morning, the wide road is peaceful, with a few cars and taxis. Later in the day it will become crowded with shoppers, doubled-parked cars, queuing buses and the occasional roadkill. Hoong looks at the flame of the forest tree and the two-storey shophouses opposite the bus stop. The feathery leaves and red flowers flutter in the morning breeze. She acknowledges them for the first time in their many years of acquaintance. She peers at the slatted wooden doors of the coffee shop behind the bus stop and suddenly craves the laksa with fresh cockles that is a sell-out with the Katong folk.

  The bus arrives and she hops up and even says “good morning” to the driver. He returns the courtesy with a sidelong glance and steps on the accelerator. She takes a window seat and puts her face to the glass pane to drink in the morning she has grown up with but is only just beginning to know. On her payday, she will get a new pair of shoes for her mother at the TBG Emporium. Then she will take her mother and siblings out to dinner at the Red House restaurant on the reclaimed land that used to be the sea, due to the zealous effort of the government to enlarge the island. The last time they sat down together for a meal, the sea was still there, and their father was still the most powerful man at the Ministry of Housing. Like the sand pushing the shoreline further away, the years have seen to it that the siblings drifted further apart, with nothing to hold them together except vague memories. Ming was always good to me, Hoong reminisces, while Yang and Ling were and probably still are in outer space—stealing chickens and once even taking the neighbour’s bicycle and cycling all the way to Changi Prison. Those two were strange. They loved to peep through the prison gate and catch glimpses of the inmates. Pa whacked them good and proper, worrying it was a manifestation of criminal tendencies. When they played their pretend Olympic Games, Ming and Hoong would be on the US team, Yang and Ling in the China camp and Pa the umpire. Ma played mahjong with her kakis. That must have been the most conflict-free time of their family life. The biggest strife they had was when Hoong played her Bee Gees records too loudly or Ling smoked in the toilet. There was also the time Yang bought a banned issue of Cosmopolitan, the last thing Ming needed to distract him from swotting to get into university. It also made Ming wonder if Yang was gay.

  Hoong smiles despite herself. If only her children were with her on the bus so she could point out to them the cake shops and noodle stalls in Katong. The maids had better be taking good care of her baby and feeding Meng Meng. Had Meng Meng forgiven her for slapping him? Maybe he is happier without her, with only the maids to yell and kick at. And Ying Ying is weaning so her mother is dispensable.

  She does not for a moment miss her husband. Why should she miss someone who cast her aside once she became an obstacle? Who sends her a lawyer’s letter to hasten her to sign the separation papers? To think I was in love with such a beast, she berates herself. Never thought I’d feel so free going back to Mother’s place. No more mother-in-law watching every move I make like a hawk. And now I have my own job. It doesn’t pay a lot but it’s enough. I can buy what I like, for whom I like. And I have Pa to thank for sending me to university. Come to think of it, by not passing on any of his wealth to me, he made me more stubborn. I can strike out on my own, even if my last choice was misguided. Unlike Yang. Unlike Ming even. Looks like being Son of the Yellow Emperor turned out to be his undoing. At least I can still hold my head up high. What’s the use of thinking? Pa’s not around anymore. No use blaming him for what happened to me. Guess he wouldn’t have wanted that to happen if he could help it. At least his troubles have helped me to see what a bastard Michael is, and…what a bitch I have been.

  Didn’t I also try to dissociate myself from the family when the trouble start
ed? My excuse was Father had never treated me fairly in the family. But for all his Big Man shit, he tried to ensure that I had a secure future with my own qualifications and, mistakenly, a qualified husband. Lots more than I can say about many other fathers. Though he did not do it for me, everything he did, sometimes illegally, he did to continue the trailblazing spirit of the Chows in public service. Poor man, he got seduced by power while pursuing his high ideals. Or maybe he was spurned by ideals and he turned to greed, the easy way out. At least he started off with some high-minded notion.

  She gets off at the bus stop in front of Tanjong Katong Girls’ School. She arrives in time for the morning assembly, where the pupils stand in rows in their respective classes on the netball court, and teachers on one side in front of the flagstaff. The head prefect raises the Singapore flag as the PA system plays the national anthem. The girls mouth the song half-heartedly and look about in all directions, while the teachers just look bored. The principal proceeds to lead the school in reciting the national pledge.

  “We, the citizens of Singapore, pledge ourselves as one united people…” After that, the principal makes some announcements and reminds her charges to keep the school premises clean at all times, especially the toilets. She warns them that their skirts should not be more than three inches above the knee and they should not wear their school uniforms in shopping centres and video arcades. After the ritual, the pupils and staff return to their classrooms to start the morning session.

  When the school bell goes at 1pm Hoong drops her piece of chalk. The girls stand and chorus, “Thank you, Ms Chow.”

  Hoong goes to the staff room to put her feet up. She has taught two periods of physics and two periods of chemistry that morning to Secondary Three girls and one period of PE to a Secondary Four class. She makes a cup of instant coffee in the pantry and returns to the staff room to rest her feet on the couch and eat her peanut butter sandwich. Her colleagues are packing up to go home or, for those with afternoon ECAs, are eating their lunch in the canteen. She sips her coffee and looks at the piles of exercise books on her desk by the window. Twelve teachers share the common staff room, cooled by two ceiling fans. The same three rows of four desks each, grey metal cupboards against the walls and the worn couch set at the corner near the doorway to the pantry. She has been given the same humble-looking desk by the window she had six years ago. Those six years were a different universe. She thinks of how she used to have afternoon tea with the other high-society ladies at hotel cafes while waiting for her husband to finish work. Then they would return home together in their chauffeur-driven car. She has another bite of her peanut butter sandwich and remembers that her son would not have that for breakfast. He loves his sausages and eggs.

  She now teaches the same subjects as six years ago and is in charge of the science club and the badminton school team. Later that afternoon, she will watch her team play against Fairfield Methodist Secondary School in a quarterfinal of the interschool badminton competition. At a coming staff meeting, she will suggest to the principal that, if she is serious about advancing the school’s reputation in both subject pass rate and ECA, she should employ a professional coach to whip the girls into shape. She will also suggest that the school might consider dropping certain subjects the girls tend not to score well in, such as literature, so as not to pull down the overall grade and the school ranking. No doubt she will incur the wrath of the literature teacher, but she is doing it for the good of the school. She has to prove that she is not only a dedicated teacher, but a good administrator. Otherwise she may not be considered for the post of the principal when the present one retires—a prospect she does not think unlikely, for despite her absence of six years, she is an old girl of the school and has taught for four. Besides, her colleagues are not as motivated as she is, if not downright jaded. Many are middle-aged women with children, or single women hoping to move on to better jobs. The ministry of education has constantly moaned the dearth of teachers as new university graduates join the more financially rewarding private sector. When the principal retires in four years’ time, she will have taught for eight years. That should qualify her for the post.

  *

  After the game, which her team lost (which will support her proposal that the school needs a professional coach), Hoong goes to her older brother’s apartment. After two buses and several minutes of walking in the sun, she is standing next to Ming, who went to bed at the time she got out of hers that morning. On his best day, he looks dull. Today, he has week-old stubble, cobwebbed eyes and matted hair. He emits a strong smell of unwash.

  “There are many things you can still do even if you can’t practise anymore,” she reproaches him as she clears an armchair of newspapers and unopened mail.

  “You came here to tell me that?”

  “No. I want you to help me fight for the custody of my children.”

  “Are you a die-hard optimist or just naive? You know who you are up against?”

  “Minister or no, I have to win.”

  Ming pushes his body up to lean against the reclining backrest of the chaise longue. “I’m not just talking about the fat-cat finance minister and his son but the whole judiciary on their side.”

  “The Women’s Charter is on mine. I’ve read many of its cases. It often favours the mother in custody cases. Besides, I have a job and steady income, and…good promotion prospects.”

  Ming closes his eyes. “How can I help you when I’m struck off the roll?”

  “You can’t argue in court but you can still do the research. And you can recommend me a good barrister.”

  He slides down to rest his head on a cushion and stretches out again. “See what I can do, but don’t bank too much on me.”

  “I will also fight for a huge maintenance. He will have to pay for this.”

  “You’re not doing it out of vengeance, are you?”

  “So what if I am?”

  “If, I’m saying hypothetically, if he asks you to go back to him, would you?” he asks with the lethargy of a sow suckling her litter.

  “If I do, I would lose the last scrap of my dignity.”

  He stretches his facial muscles to evince a smile. “You said you have good promotion prospects?”

  “Well, if I work very hard, who knows, I might become a school principal by the time I’m 40.”

  “It’s good to have some dignity,” Ming says with a shrug, smiling. Then he stirs. “Did those bastards ask you about some private journal that Pa kept?”

  “I told them they are wasting time on me. I’m the last one to know anything about Pa. Do you?”

  When he doesn’t respond, she asks again. “Ming, do you?”

  “Uh? No.”

  “For heaven’s sake, go and have a shave and a shower. Ma asks you to come home for dinner.”

  “See how.” He continues lying on the chaise longue and closes his eyes.

  “Come over Sunday afternoon. Ma and the aunties play mahjong till midnight. I join them quite often. Quite good for relaxation.”

  “What? Our Mrs Chin playing mahjong again?” Ming exclaims from his horizontal position.

  “Don’t be an idiot.” From her armchair she looks at her brother, then turns away from his foul breath. On her way to the kitchen, she picks up empty beer cans. Polystyrene boxes with food scraps are lying open on the kitchen counter, crawling with black ants. She places the cans and the boxes into a plastic bag and throws it down the rubbish chute.

  “Ma asks you not to eat too much outside food. A lot of MSG.” She opens the kitchen window, puts on a pair of rubber gloves and notices the dishwashing liquid has run out. She washes the coffee-stained mugs and grease-coated plates in the sink with washing powder from the laundry room. She wipes down the counter top, rinses the rag and washes her hands. She opens the fridge to get some water, but there’s only beer and chocolate biscuits.

  “What do you do these days?” she asks as she fills a glass under the tap.

  “Eat, sleep and brea
the,” he mumbles.

  “You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  “To do what?”

  Hoong puts down the glass of water and says nothing.

  “Are you ashamed of me?” He turns to look at his sister. A tear rolls down one side of his cheek, into the cushion.

  “Hey.” She comes over and takes hold of his hand.

  “I’m the corrupt son of the corrupt father,” he chokes.

  “Don’t punish yourself anymore. It’s not our fault. It’s those beasts. We can’t let them destroy us,” she pleads.

  “You can. The law may help you. But not me.”

  “Please Ming, you’re only 38. You can’t just give up like that.”

  “How? Work under my junior as his clerk? Be their errand boy?”

  “What about starting your own business? I think Ma and I can pool some money to set you up.”

  “You’ll need the money yourself to fight the custody case.” He turns away from his sister and faces the backrest.

  “Don’t think I was just a brainless housewife when I was married to that worm. I have half a share in all our investments, including the house. The CPIB would have frozen them had they not been under both our names.”

  He covers his face with the cushion, muffling his voice. “Good for you. I haven’t been so lucky.”

  She sits by her brother, her hand on his quivering shoulder as he buries his head under the cushion. She goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water for him and sits by his side again. The sun drops below the horizon, and the room turns the blue-black of a bruise. Outside the tinted window, evening blots out what little cheer the light can bring. The old newspapers strewn on the floor deepen her sense of spent youth, both her brother’s and her own. She is overcome by a sense of premature ageing, of ageing at the rate of one year every two minutes, of black hair turning white, smooth skin turning wrinkled, warm blood turning cold. She can’t bear to turn on the table lamp, to see a grown man cry like a child. She begs him to get up, have a shower and go to their mother’s place to eat a home-cooked dinner.