Picture Bride

by C. Fong Hsiung

  When the operator cuts in and asks if we want to extend the call, Mama says no and the line goes dead before we can say goodbye properly. I cradle the silent receiver in my hand, willing Mama’s voice to come back. With my back towards Peter, my chin drops to my chest as silent tears fall. Ah-Kung’s passing only adds to my loneliness. I wipe my cheeks with my trusty handkerchief and hang up the phone.

  Through the dense fog of yearning for my old life, I see one silver lining. Peter has cleared the air about where he stands with me. I won’t have to fret about whether he will join me in bed or not.

  A few weeks pass. I cannot help thinking about the other woman in Peter’s life. Is she pretty? Has he stopped seeing her? Why didn’t he marry her? Did his parents object to her, or was it the other way around? Why is he not attracted to me? Now I am married to a man whose only desire for me is that I cook, clean and host his poker parties.

  These poker parties with Peter’s friends take up at least one day every weekend. Sometimes I drop by Mandy’s apartment and we reminisce about our time together in Tangra or we just chat about what our days have been like. She has taught me how to handle everyday house chores, like how to use the coin laundry. I learn to get around on my own during the week when Peter goes to work. The subway is close by and easy to navigate even for a newcomer like me. Often I pore over the employment section of the Toronto Star. When I’ve drummed up enough courage, I begin to visit those places that are hiring. After a few shy and unsuccessful attempts, I learn to square my shoulders, stride across the floors to the clerks, and with a large smile and a forced sparkle in my eyes, I ask the same question I’ve asked before: “Are you hiring?” Now they smile and say, “We’re always hiring. Fill this application and I’ll make sure my manager gets it.” I’m starting to develop a thicker skin. The worst thing these clerks can tell me is, “No.”

  Success comes early in September when Central Insurance interviews me. When I ace the typing test with seventy words a minute the personnel manager hires me on the spot as a data entry clerk and tells me to start next Monday. I bounce out of the office humming The Carpenters’ “Top of the World.” I start to walk the short distance to St James Town, but there is no reason for me to rush. Peter will not be expecting his lunch for another hour.

  The store windows on Bloor Street glow in the sunlight, their sale signs shining like beacons inviting me in. A young brunette twirls a rack of summer clothes by the side of an entrance. The sign on it says “SALE 50% OFF!” My feet carry me towards the rack and soon afterwards I emerge from the store with my purchase still swinging.

  When I arrive home, Peter inclines his head away from the television and towards me, and with a sweeping glance he asks, “So, how did your interview go?”

  “Uh, good. I got the job.” I place my shopping bag and purse on the floor while I take my shoes off.

  “Finally . . . a job. What’s in that bag?”

  “Oh, I bought a dress at half-price.”

  Eyebrows arch. “You haven’t started to work yet and already you’re spending frivolously.”

  “It wasn’t a lot of money. I thought I’d get something nice to wear on my first day at work. Besides, I haven’t bought any clothes for myself since I landed here.”

  “And what’s wrong with all the ones you’ve got?”

  “Can’t I celebrate my first job with a new outfit?”

  “Oh, now that you’ve found a job, you’re going to raise your voice at me, huh?” Thick, black eyebrows knit into a solid menacing line.

  “Please let’s not fight. Why can’t you be happy for me today?”

  “So you think we’re fighting? I thought we were having a discussion.”

  I want to hold on to the joyful feeling of success and so I refuse to let him goad me into a fight. I ignore his remark.

  “You better not be planning to leave now that you have a job.” His tone drops a menacing octave.

  “Who said anything about leaving?” At the back of my mind, I wonder about the immigration rules and Peter’s oft-repeated threats to report me should I divorce him. Even if I find out that I cannot be deported, Papa will disown me for leaving my husband, holding me responsible forever for the scandal and shame I have brought upon the family.

  I see financial independence and its heady possibilities in the not-too-distant future. I will start to plan soon for a life without Peter. But how do I convince Papa and Mama that my marriage is not working?

  Monday cannot come soon enough for me.

  ·7·

  In my new red dress, its white ribbon hanging loose like a tie, and my sandaled feet firmly strapped over two-inch heels, I walk carefully into Central Insurance’s fifth floor front office and announce myself. The receptionist makes a call, and soon the inside door opens and Liz, the personnel manager—a long-haired brunette—comes out to greet me. She leads me to her office where she hands me some forms to fill and then leaves. Fifteen minutes later, she returns.

  “Ready?” she asks. “Accounts Payable is on the fourth floor. We’ll take the stairs down.”

  On the accounting floor, there are rows of gray and dark green workstations, through which we meander, my eyes darting about, noting every path and turn. We stop in front of an office that faces an open space containing four workstations which surround a round table in the middle. A woman with curly, salt-and-pepper hair looks up from her desk. With the hint of a smile, she pushes back her chair, rises, and stretches out a long and slender arm.

  Liz says, “Fatima, this is Jillian Chou.” She turns to me. “Jillian, this is Fatima Sourial, the Accounts Payable Supervisor.”

  Fatima shakes my hand with a firm grip. Her smile softens the severe features—a high-bridged sharp nose below deep-set dark gray eyes.

  Liz leaves me with Fatima who says, “Come, let’s go outside to the bullpen and I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  I realize that she’s referring to the work area in front of us with the workstations. A balding, pot-bellied man, seated to our left, watches us approach. He steps forward with a grin. “Hi, I’m Doug Farnham.”

  Fatima says, “Doug is an old hand here. He’s been doing this job for a number of years.”

  The young woman with her back toward us now turns around. Sheryl Mayer, willowy and dark, flashes pearly white teeth as she greets us.

  The remaining two spots are unoccupied. Fatima tells me that the third one is mine and points to the fourth desk where a half-eaten croissant sits on top of a brown paper bag. “This is Wendy Somers’s workstation. She’s assistant supervisor here and will be training you.”

  My job is simple—code and batch invoices in the morning, and then enter what Doug or Sheryl has completed into a computer terminal in the afternoon.

  I put my purse inside one of the drawers and wait for Fatima to give me more instructions. As I straighten up, a woman rushes in, breathing heavily, her bosom rising and falling over her ample girth. “The cheque printer’s jammed again. I need your help.”

  “Can’t it wait for another fifteen minutes?” Fatima asks. “Wendy, this is Jillian. She’ll be working with you.”

  Wendy eyes me curiously. “Uh, hi.” Then she shakes her head. “We have a rush cheque. You need to come right away.”

  The two women disappear behind the screen leaving me with Doug and Sheryl.

  “That Wendy is always in a rush,” says Doug with a chuckle. “It’s amazing how she’s not thin like Fatima, seeing how she’s always running around.”

  I curl my lips uncertainly, not sure if it’s rude to agree or disagree with him.

  Sheryl says almost apologetically, “Wendy loves to eat. She’s always baking and bringing goodies to share with us.”

  Doug says, “You’ll like it here. We take care of each other. Both Wendy and I make sure you kids don’t starve. See that table th
ere?” He points to the centre. “That’s our food table every Friday.”

  “Food . . . you guys are obsessed with it.” Wendy bounces in with a smile that crinkles her light gray eyes, the same colour as the streaks in her straight, dark hair that barely covers her ears. She pushes her black-rimmed glasses over her nose, tears a piece off the croissant on her desk, and stuffs it into her mouth. “Alright, Jillian. Let’s get started.”

  Wendy takes me under her wing and teaches me how to code invoices, how to use the photocopy machine, and other office work and I say a silent prayer of thanks for her patience and the energy that she exudes. Soon the sound of her voice, the click-clacking of the keyboards, and Doug and Sheryl’s occasional chatter all blend into the morning’s comfortable hum at the office.

  At noon, Wendy invites me to go to the basement lunchroom to eat together, and the seed of our friendship is sown.

  Over the next few weeks, not only does Wendy teach me how to do my job, but she also shows me how to navigate office life, whom to avoid, and when to become involved. I start each morning by reconciling the previous day’s data inputs with reams of printouts. At first, the sheer volume of the numbers befuddles me, but soon I learn to breeze through the sheets. By ten o’clock, I move on to the invoices. The little square boxes on the coding blocks no longer look like unsolvable crossword puzzles.

  Although Fatima watches the group with a keen eye from her vantage point, her busy schedule prevents her from interfering with us often. She assigns tasks to us, but we turn to Wendy to help us troubleshoot.

  Wendy brings us treats whenever her culinary creativity needs an outlet—or when she just wants to test a new recipe, like the one Fatima gave her for a Middle Eastern dessert. On a Friday morning, she shows off her sweet pastry, a lightly browned baklava oozing in sugar syrup.

  Once, during our midmorning coffee break, Doug says, as he wipes flaky crumbs off his desk, “Wendy, you’ve outdone yourself. Can I get the recipe from you?”

  I laugh. “How do you know your wife would be interested in making it?”

  “I plan to bake this myself. My wife left me a long time ago.”

  I seem to stick my foot in the wrong places, it seems. “Oh, I’m sorry. I hear you talk about your son often, so I thought . . . ” I give a shrug. “Where I came from, some men don’t even know how to boil water. Cooking is a woman’s job there.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I love to cook, and I’m damn good too.”

  “I can vouch for his cooking.” Sheryl joins in, her lean long fingers plucking a baklava out of the dish. “Doug sews, too. He showed me pictures of the drapes he’s made for his living room. I’d pay him to do mine, but he’s not taking orders.”

  Doug gives a throaty chuckle.

  Later, I tell Wendy, “I never would have thought of Doug as the kind of guy who could cook and sew.”

  Wendy looks at me. “You really are naïve, aren’t you?”

  I’m confused. These people at work—my first real experience in non-Chinese and non-Indian interactions—speak with nuances that fly over my head.

  “Have you never heard Doug talk about his roommate?”

  I shake my head.

  “Doug lives with a partner—a hot-shot corporate lawyer. It’s not something he admits to publicly,” Wendy says.

  “You mean he’s . . . ”

  Wendy nods.

  “I’ve never met anyone who is . . . well, you know.” I see Doug in a new light. I’m afraid that I will treat him differently. But as soon as we start talking, he is just the same jolly sweet-natured guy that I’ve come to like and respect. Nothing has changed.

  Three months into my job, Wendy asks me to deliver a cheque to a leasing director for Central’s corporate real estate division located across the street.

  As I step outside, fluffy white snowflakes swirl before my eyes. I stick out a hand and feel the soft flakes tickle as they fall and melt in my palm. I’d only seen them in movies before. Gingerly I put one foot on the thin layer of fresh snow in front of me and cross the road. By the time I push the revolving door of the building, the reflection on the glass reveals a light white dusting on my hair and coat.

  I follow Wendy’s instructions and take the elevator to the tenth floor. The receptionist gives me directions and I head off to the office of Daniel Russell. Over the back of a black leather chair, a sandy-blond head—phone pressed against an ear—bobs each time he says, “Uh-huh.” After a while, feeling uncomfortable about eavesdropping, I clear my throat to attract his attention. He turns and his brows rise over his blue eyes.

  I hold up the envelope. Self-consciously, I also raise my other hand and run my fingers through my hair, raking droplets from my recent and brief snowy encounter. He beckons me inside with long slender fingers, motioning me to sit. All this time he continued to speak on the phone. And I find myself irresistibly attracted to him.

  Finally he drops the phone on the cradle and with an enquiring glance, he asks, “Can I help you?”

  I blush, feeling like I’ve been caught red-handed thinking about him. “Er . . . Daniel?”

  He nods.

  “Wendy sent me to give you this cheque.” I put the envelope on the desk and rise to leave.

  “Don’t go yet. Are you new?”

  I squirm.

  “I’ve been with the company for a few months now.”

  A smile hovers on those lips, and my heart beats rapidly.

  He says, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “My name’s Jillian . . . Chou.” I must get used to saying my new surname.

  He stands up, stretching out his arm. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, and thanks for bringing me the cheque.”

  His hand grips mine. I look up six inches above my head to meet his eyes, which appear to be laughing at me, and notice the gentle cleft, like a dimple, on the rounded chin.

  “You’re . . . welcome.”

  In my haste to leave, I bump into the chair as a spiked heel gets tangled with a loose thread in the carpet.

  “Whoa . . . steady there,” he says, sounding amused.

  I sense his eyes on my back as I straighten my shoulders, lift my head upright, and stride toward the door.

  Ever since I met Daniel, he plagues my thoughts. The memory of my foolish behaviour at our meeting mortifies me. And when I recall the mocking blue eyes laughing at my discomfort, I feel the heat rush to my face all over again. I thought my hand would turn to jelly when he held it.

  I don’t see him again until the office Christmas party a few weeks later. Peter refuses to go with me. Over his loud disapproval, I partner with Wendy to attend my first social event with my coworkers.

  While we wait at the bar for the bartender to pour our drinks, I glance around and find myself staring at Daniel standing beside me. I shrink away to avoid contact with him; I do not want to draw attention to myself. But he doesn’t appear to notice me when he places his orders, drumming his fingertips.

  The bartender returns with our drinks. And Daniel turns in my direction.

  “Jillian, right?” he says, as recognition dawns on his face.

  My heart hammers against my rib cage. His proximity paralyzes me. Please don’t let me make a fool of myself again.

  “The two of you work together?” he asks as he glances at Wendy.

  Say something. I nod again unable to manipulate my stiff tongue.

  “You don’t say much, huh?”

  “I . . . ” Words fail as I cringe with the knowledge that I am repeating the same mistake that I made at our first meeting.

  Wendy squeezes my arm. “Jillian’s somewhat shy. She only came to this country earlier this year.”

  The bartender puts two glasses in front of Daniel. I grab my drink, and mutter, “It was nice meeti
ng you again.” Before he can respond, I turn away and bee-line for our table, not caring if Wendy is behind me or not.

  When we sit, Wendy frowns. “Are you alright? That was so unlike you.”

  I sip from my glass and sputter, “Was I rude? I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

  With a knowing smile she says, “Maybe you’re attracted to Daniel.”

  “Absolutely and definitively not.”

  “It’s okay. Who can blame you? If I were twenty years younger and twenty pounds lighter, I’d make a play for him too.” She laughs, her eyes following Daniel as he puts his drinks down a few tables across from us. “Look at that gorgeous creature he’s with. I wonder who she is.”

  I steal a furtive glance at the tall and svelte blonde in a striking, black off-shoulder evening gown. She pecks his cheek and sashays toward a group of people a few feet away. They laugh at something she says and then she returns to sit beside Daniel. He throws his head back and belts out a loud laugh.

  I sigh. Wendy eyes me with concern. “I heard that.”

  “It’s nothing.” I say.

  “If you don’t mind, let me give you a piece of advice: Stay away from Daniel. You’ll only land in a lot of trouble. I’ve never seen him with the same woman at these functions.”

  With those good looks, I have no doubt that women fall over themselves to attract his attention.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m not his type, and I’m married. And I would never dream of cheating on my husband.”

  Even as I assert this, I watch Daniel and his date from the corner of my eyes.

  Soon some couples take to the dance floor. I watch Daniel and his friend sway to the soft sensuous beat of Rumba. She wraps her arms around his neck. When the song ends, she clings to his arm as they head back to their table.