End of East, The

by Lee, Jen Sookfong

  “I didn’t know it was like this, or where you were. I hadn’t seen you in years. I had to ask four different men this morning to find out where you were living.”

  Lim waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want your help now, and I wouldn’t have taken it then. Just go away. I’m glad your son is coming. Make sure he works hard.” He turns to the wall, offering Seid Quan only a view of his pimpled and skinny back.

  When Seid Quan returns to his rented house, Mr. Yip, waiting just behind the front door, hands him a glass of whisky. Immediately, men pour into the living room from the kitchen. “Surprise, brother! Consider this an early welcome-home party for your son.”

  It has been many years in this place, trees brilliant and green against a summer sky low against the mountains. This is what it is: a man grown old (who seemed to go from eighteen to fifty-six in a matter of weeks) waiting to see his son, a man who has been back to his village three times, one visit for every child he has fathered, a man standing at the docks, looking with tired eyes at a large boat fresh from China.

  He spots his son immediately even though he has never seen him in person before, a small, slight boy with slicked hair and blush red lips. He is so pretty, he thinks, like a little girl. He calls his name, and Pon Man looks over, an insolent expression on his face.

  Seid Quan reaches out to him and Pon Man steps back. He is smelling the old-man odour on me, he thinks. Like the odour of this huge and unfathomable country. Seid Quan is desperate to touch him, and Pon Man looks scared, as if his fifteen-year-old self is completely unable to cope with his father’s tangible and enormous emotional need. He sneers instead, turning his head to avoid the smells and sights of despair and pathetic happiness.

  Seid Quan’s hands shake as he puts them in his pockets, his son still untouched.

  two

  the port

  When I was a child, the house was never quiet. Even if everyone was sleeping, the collective sound of our heavy breathing and body shifts during the night reassured me when I woke up from a bad dream.

  In the day, my mother called out for all of us, “Wendy-Daisy-Jackie-Penny-Samantha!” even if she only wanted one, her mind seemingly unable to make the distinction. And we ran, jostling into each other in the hallways, pushing against the walls that barely contained us. As the youngest, I was always last and out of breath, my thick glasses fogged over from the heat of my own exertion.

  Now, the night before Penny’s wedding, it really is just my mother and me. Penny is staying in her complimentary hotel suite tonight, and her room is empty. Everything has been moved to her new apartment in a low-rise building across town.

  I walk past my mother on my way to bed. The living room, so large with its heavy stone fireplace (the hearth covered in plastic, of course, for fear of bone-chilling drafts and wayward squirrels), and my mother, so small in her red cardigan. The dimness pools around her as if threatening to absorb her.

  “Going to sleep?” she asks.

  “Yes, what about you?”

  “I won’t be able to sleep tonight, not with the wedding tomorrow. At least the TV keeps me company.”

  I take a breath, step toward the couch and sit down beside her. “Mom, when Dad was young, what was he like?”

  “I don’t know. He was like a lot of boys.” She pauses. “Except your father always did like the lounge singers. Not so much into the rock and roll.”

  “What else, Mom? Did he play poker? Was he a good dancer?”

  “So many questions,” she mutters in Chinese as she picks a ball of lint off her sweater. “He was angry sometimes, your father. Always trying to prove himself, as if other people thought he was dirt. No one thought he was dirt. He was very popular, especially in Chinatown.” She looks at me. “I don’t remember much these days, you know, only little things here and there.”

  I stand up. “Yes, I know. Thanks anyway.”

  She nods. “He hated cutting hair. I don’t think I ever even saw him in the barbershop.” She stands up and heads to the kitchen. “I don’t like talking about the past—who knows how much bad luck we’re stirring up? Why don’t you ask yourself why you can’t finish school instead?”

  I stare at her retreating back, wondering if I should say something, explain that school means nothing, dispute her ideas on good and bad luck, yell at her for being the only, faulty link I have left to my father as a young man.

  She pulls a package of tea from the cupboard and turns to look at me one more time. “I burned everything a long time ago, except for his tools and the gardening things. They wouldn’t have burned and, besides, they were expensive.” As soon as she looks away, I run downstairs.

  When I reach the garage (old oil stains on the concrete, the emptiness of a garage without a car) and open the door, a cold rush of air pours out, and I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my balled fists. The flickering light bulb reveals shadows and then hides them, over and over again. Finally, through the appearing and disappearing light, I see my father’s toolbox.

  The latch has rusted and pieces of decayed metal chip off onto my hands and the floor. I push my open palm against the lid, and it finally snaps open. Old finishing nails fly through the air.

  I half expect the contents to smell of my father (that smell I can no longer remember but am sure I would know if I ever encountered it again), but they simply smell of metal and rust. As I rifle my way through the first layer of screws and bolts, small metal bits fall and skitter across the concrete. Frustrated, I pull the top tray out and begin to dig through the screwdrivers and wrenches in the very bottom of the toolbox.

  A piece of paper tickles my palm. I squint and see the corner of a book buried underneath the hammer and mallet. A sketchbook. My father’s name, in Chinese and English, is scrawled on the cover. I hold it gingerly, afraid it will crumble to dust at the touch of my oily, spastic fingers. I walk quickly back through the house to my room, leaving the scattered tools behind.

  I turn the first few pages and find sketches of his parents, the noses and hands passed over quickly, some of the mouths crossed out in frustration—signs of an artist impatient to finish. As I look further, I see pictures of towering trees as seen from below, angular and rough mountains, fantastic clouds. The landscapes are both real and imagined—Canada as he saw it, or Canada as he feared it was. These are not drawings of love; the monstrous outgrowths of wilderness are frightening or possibly challenging, but not endearing. I find nothing lovely or precious here.

  At the very back of the book is a sketch of my mother. She is naked, lying on her side, her features unmistakable in my father’s quick, light pencil lines. Her legs, arms and breasts are drawn deliberately; she is beautiful. He made her fecund, a rounded symbol of fertility; her hips swell.

  My father’s landscapes thrust upward, rip open the sky. His picture of my mother is light, smooth, floral in its homage. “My love,” I imagine him saying, “you are all the earth to me.”

  I trace the lines with my fingers, feeling the marks my father made in the paper. The light cast by the side lamp shines yellow, and the forty-year-old paper is a soft, pliable gold. This is so much about them and their beginning, I think. Lives framed by love—think of that. I can’t imagine anything more tragic.

  I look up from the sketchbook and listen for the sounds of my mother lurking outside my door. Nothing. The confinement of my bedroom walls keeps the voices at bay—both my mother’s and those girly voices from the past, the ones that rise and drop with the sounds of tinkling earrings and the smacking of lipsticked mouths. Even though silence unnerves me, the echo of sounds that have come and gone is worse. Sometimes, silence is better.

  I hold the book in my hands, wishing one of my sisters would come barging in so that we could turn these pages together and both be embarrassed by our parents’ young, naked love. But they all left, gradually, one after the other. Somehow, it never occurred to me that, in the end, I would be the only one still here.

  The clouds ove
rhead make it a grey evening, and the ocean sounds weak, as if it has lost its purpose for being. Hundreds of people mill about the port as they wait for their cruises to Alaska or Mexico. Vancouver is a kind of oceanside attraction, a pretty place on the way to somewhere else.

  I can hear the sounds of Penny’s wedding behind me: the shouts of my drunken uncle, the tinkling of chopsticks against rice bowls, the giggling of my sister and her other bridesmaids. My mother comes out to see what I’m doing, takes one look at me and hurries back into the hotel ballroom. I’m alone except for the old man in a dirty apron squatting in the corner—and he silently smokes Marlboros, one after the other. It’s a nice view from this balcony, a hotel builder’s dream. The cruise ships sit, massive, like bloated whales, white on grey-black water. I look down at my bridesmaid dress; the big skirt reminds me of a porcelain doll one of my childhood friends kept propped up on her dresser. I feel almost as stiff, but not quite so virginal. I laugh to myself (the smoky old man doesn’t seem to notice); Matt would find this whole charade screamingly funny.

  On our last day together, he pulled me toward him on our unmade bed. The harsh afternoon light pushed its way through half-closed blinds. His eyes were shadowed, but his mouth remained flesh pink, his teeth bright. He licked his lips, his tongue flicking in and out like a small lizard tasting the air for the next fly. He moved out of the dark, back into the light. Black, white. Black, white. My hand lay flat on his chest—graphic, tattoo-like, a dark stain.

  “Small breasts,” he said, “are the most sensitive.”

  He preferred the daylight, and it made me want to hide; I don’t like seeing myself naked, watching my own breasts move up and down, my thighs open wide. Everything with him was revealed: the fleshiness, the soft give and take of skin, the glitter of sweat, shades of pink, peach and brown. And he talked, his voice absurd against the sound of our bodies coming together, the slapping of fornication. Like an actor raising his voice above the crowd, Matt made sure I could hear him, and he spoke clearly, slowly—a little public speaking.

  It was the feeling of his body on mine that made me wish these moments could last and last—the feeling of him holding me completely. My hands, my face, everything. I could look up and see nothing but him, count the differences between his features and mine. I could forget that I was naked, sweaty, thin; I could forget that I existed at all.

  Afterward, he stroked my breasts and looked up at the ceiling. “When we’re together, everything goes away. I don’t have to think when I’m with you.” Matt rolled over and looked me in the face, his blue eyes blinding. He kissed my forehead. “But you have to leave, don’t you?”

  I opened my mouth to say, No, I don’t. I could stay here forever . But then I closed my lips tight and swallowed. Through the crack in the blinds, I could see the hazy sun poking its way through the smog. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with the smell of our bodies, but I knew the air wouldn’t be much better outside. I shut my eyes and imagined rain.

  I shake my head, trying to empty it of all thoughts not related to Penny’s wedding. Walking back into the ballroom, I weave my way through the tightly packed tables of mostly drunk middle-aged Chinese couples. The best man has started his toast to my sister, who sits with her arm around our mother.

  “He’s a lucky guy, folks. Doesn’t she look beautiful tonight?”

  Penny’s face is a deep red, and she giggles into her new husband’s shoulder. My mother laughs loudly. The theatre of marriage, I think, makes everyone get along. I make it to the bar and sit heavily on a stool, facing away from the head table, and rearrange the lavender layers of my bridesmaid dress. I order a double gin and tonic.

  The bartender passes me my drink and then leans with his elbows on the bar. “So, how do you know the happy couple? From the look on your face, I’d say you hardly know them at all or you know them too well.”

  I laugh and look up at his face. Blue eyes, red, purposely messy hair. Smooth, white skin, so pale he’s almost blue. Sly smile.

  “The bride is my sister, so I guess I know them too well. See that big white dress? Well, everyone thinks she’s pregnant, but no one wants to ask her.”

  “Ah, you’re the black sheep, aren’t you? That’s a good thing, because I don’t think I could talk to anyone who would voluntarily wear this dress.” He touches the ruffle on my sleeve. “Listen, I saw you standing outside just now and you didn’t look very happy. I think you need some fun.”

  His eyes glimmer in the dim; the tea lights on the bar cast moving shadows on his face. He seems not quite there, a phantom bartender on a dark and stormy night. The noise of the room disappears, and it’s just him and me, lit from below by candles.

  “I get off shift in ten minutes. I think you and I should take a little walk and get a drink somewhere.”

  As I walk out of the cloakroom with my jacket and purse, Jackie, dragging her sniffling son along with one hand, stops me. “Where are you going? You have to come back in time for the bouquet toss, especially now that you’re the only single sister left.”

  “I’m just going out to grab some gum.”

  “Oh good. You don’t want to miss the cake cutting either. All right, Tyler, I know you have to pee. Let’s go, then.”

  As Jackie turns toward the hallway, her carefully set hair sitting in unmoving curls on the top of her head, she touches my shoulder. “Penny just told me this morning how happy she is you’re living with Mom right now. So, thanks.”

  I look at her narrow face and stiffly sprayed hair. I shrug. “I had nothing else to do,” I mutter.

  At the exit from the ballroom, I turn around. My sisters move quickly, like sparrows, quivering, grouping together and then moving apart. My mother stands behind Wendy, her nose on level with my sister’s straight shoulders. I see her move as if to touch her, pick a piece of dust off her dress, but then my mother thinks better of it and lets her hand fall to her side. She turns and looks at me, sees my jacket and purse and then turns away again. If she knows I’m leaving, she isn’t asking any questions.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the bar down the street, crushed up against strangers in a sweaty, boozy crowd. He shouts over the noise and orders a double gin and tonic for me before looking me in the eye. “I hope this isn’t weird for you.” His head is bent over, and his breath is hot on my ear. “Because I know I’m just what you need.”

  “We were going to name you Christopher,” says Wendy as she paints her fingernails. “But, you know, you came out a girl, so we had to turf that idea.” She blows on her long fingers, carefully moving them back and forth so that the polish will dry evenly.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, breathing in the nail polish and the dry, dusty smell of the potpourri packets she has placed on every surface. Her wedding dress hangs on a hook on the back of her door, its white satin shining in the dim light. Her veil lies on her dresser, covered in plastic. I touched it once the day before, when my sister had left the house to buy more wrappers for the fruitcake party favours. It felt stiff, wiry, completely opposite to the way I had expected (lighter even than air, white froth made solid). Weddings are a disappointing business when you are only seven years old.

  “And then, you know, Mom was sick, so no one really took care of you. I mean, we all did, but we were just kids then, and we didn’t know what to do.” She looks at me through her asymmetrical bangs and reaches over to tousle my hair. “I actually melted your baby bottles once. How was I supposed to know that water boils away so fast?”

  Daisy, her highlighted hair in curlers, runs into the room with her bright pink bridesmaid dress in her hands. “Listen, can you help me iron out this pucker right by the zipper? How did I not notice this earlier?” She looks at me, surprised. “Aren’t you in bed yet? You’re too little to stay up this late.” She runs out of the room again, leaving behind a curler that has dropped out of her hair.

  Wendy sighs. “Well, Sammy, I’ll be out of the house forever by tomorrow. Can’t say that
I’m too sad about it either.” She pats me on the head. “You have a big day tomorrow too. Go to bed. I still have a lot to do.”

  I sit on the stairs for a long time, watching my sisters break in their shoes, run out to the twenty-four-hour drugstore for last-minute makeup and hairspray. Penny joins me briefly. “They’re going to play Christopher Cross at the reception, you know. How sappy. I’m going to see if I can request something better, maybe some New Order or something, like they played at the school dance.” She punches me in the arm. “I’ll get my own bedroom now that Wendy’s leaving. I can’t wait, because you’re the biggest pain in the butt when you snore.”

  Upstairs, my parents play mah-jong with the out-of-town relatives, the moving tiles like little footsteps, dozens of tap shoes on a wooden floor. I rest my head on a banister and fall asleep. When I wake up, the house vibrates with suppressed energy, full to the rafters with back satin, boutonnieres. Expectations.

  At the airport, my father, thinner than he has ever been before, stands in line with Daisy as she checks her luggage and requests an aisle seat. He hoists her suitcase up onto the scale, his scraggly hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes. He straightens up again, sighing.

  I stand to the side with everyone else: my mother, Jackie and Penny, even Wendy and her nervous husband, who fidgets and rubs the top of his head until his straight black hair sticks up on end. He stands on one foot and then the other, twisting his hands together and whistling. My grandfather is at home. No one has bothered to tell him that Daisy is leaving to live in Hong Kong.