Lively Cha-Cha comes up next. A young couple glides all over the dance floor with effortless grace. Their performance captivates me so much that when I hear my name, I jerk and almost topple the half-filled glass in front of me. I glance up to see Daniel towering over me.
“May I?”
After a slight hesitation, our fingers meet. He leads me to the dance floor. I will finally put to use the countless hours I spent learning the Cha-Cha from my Anglo-Indian friends during school recesses.
Daniel is a good dancer. Light on his feet, his hands apply gentle pressure when he guides and twirls me. He leads me to one side and then the other. He pulls me forward and then pushes me back. We stick to basic moves. The rhythmic music infuses me with a warm glow. I wish it would go on forever. But it does end. Wordlessly, he walks me back to my seat. “Thanks for the dance,” he says when I’m seated.
I grab my table napkin and fan myself. “Thank you,” I pant.
“You’re an amazing dancer,” he bends down and whispers in my ear.
·8·
“Mandy, did you swallow a cantaloupe?” Kathy asks with a chuckle.
Mandy rubs her belly with one hand and stuffs a bean cake into her mouth with the other. She reaches for another pastry on Kathy’s kitchen table. “Okay, you got me. I was going to hold off telling you until my parents received my letter. This baby’s almost four months along.” She pats her stomach.
Kathy and I congratulate her.
“Steve must be really happy. I’m sure he wants a boy,” I say.
“He can hardly wait. He wants to start shopping for the baby’s things right away, but it’s not due until May.”
Kathy casts a mischievous grin in my direction. “And what about you—do you have an announcement to make yet?”
“Uh, no, nothing.” I blush and attempt to pick a speck off my lap. I know that sooner or later, people will wonder why I’m not pregnant. I have a vague plan to be out of Peter’s life by then. I need to be certain that I will not be breaking any immigration laws first; I’ll save up enough money to live on my own, and build up the courage to face Papa’s wrath. Just thinking about what Papa will do gives me the shivers.
“Don’t wait too long. I think women should have children when they’re young,” Mandy says, wiping the crumbs from the coconut tart off her mouth.
Kathy nods. “I agree. Let’s remind Peter to do his duty.” She yells towards the dining room, “Hey, Peter, did you hear that Steve and Mandy are expecting a baby? When are you and Jie-Lan planning to have yours?”
Peter glares at her over the top of the poker cards fanned out before him. “Mind your own business. We’ll have a baby when we’re ready.”
“My, aren’t we touchy!” Kathy laughs.
I bury my chin lower while I pick every imaginary speck off my sweater. This Christmas break is giving Kathy and Mandy too many opportunities to probe into my situation, what with one poker party after another. It’s bad enough that Papa and Mama hint about wanting a grandchild in every letter. They worry that my in-laws may start to wonder about my ability to bear sons. Mandy’s news will only increase the pressure.
Mandy lowers her voice and snickers. “Maybe you’re not doing it right.”
Kathy agrees, her eyes dancing. “You must hold everything inside when you’re finished.”
What will they say if they find out that I’m still a virgin? I excuse myself and leave the two women giggling and whispering about the most effective ways to create a baby.
When I return, I join Eric and Rachel on the couch. I ask them if they want to hear a story.
“Yes,” Rachel’s eyes light up. “Tell me about fairies.”
“That’s silly girly stuff,” Eric says. “I want to hear about Kung-Fu fighting.”
“Alright, I’ll try for both,” I say and begin a story I heard from Ah-Kung.
Later when the children have gone to bed, Kathy sits beside me.
“How are you getting along with Peter these days?”
“Everything’s fine.” What else can I say? I watch Mandy standing behind Steve, rubbing his shoulders and neck while he bluffs his way around in the poker game.
On an impulse, I ask, “Did Peter have a girlfriend before we got married?”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t think so . . . at least, not any that I know of.”
“Hmm . . . he alluded to someone he loved, and perhaps still does.”
“Oh, that can’t be true. But then again, Peter is a bit of a dark horse. Maybe he was seeing someone secretly. Even if it’s true, it must have happened long ago.”
“I don’t think so,” I say under my breath.
Kathy frowns. “Are you accusing him of being unfaithful?”
“No, no, of course not.” But I don’t know for sure.
Kathy pats my hand. “I think you’re learning about one another and some doubt is natural. After all, neither one of you knew each other before you got engaged. Once you start having babies, you’ll be like an old married couple.”
It always comes back to the dreaded babies.
Later that night, on the way home, I sit silently in the car deep in thought, reflecting on my conversation with Kathy.
“I heard you and Kathy mention my name when the two of you were talking,” Peter interrupts my thoughts.
I stare out into the dark side streets looking at the Christmas lights twinkling on trees and houses. “Oh, it was nothing.”
“You spoke about me for no reason?”
I try to sound nonchalant. “Kathy was asking about how things are going between us.”
“And what did you say?”
Sighing, I turn towards him. “What do you want me to say? That everything is perfect between us?”
Peter takes his eyes off the road for a moment to look at me. Raw anger shines in his eyes. “I don’t want you ever telling my sister anything about us. If you think you can get her to talk to me about giving you a divorce, you can forget about it. You and I are staying married.”
I couldn’t have recoiled more if he’d punched me physically.
“Why do you want to keep up this charade? If you love someone else, why don’t you divorce me and get married to her? We’re both unhappy . . . this doesn’t make any sense.”
“Don’t think for one moment that I don’t know why you married me. You used me to immigrate to Canada, so don’t preach to me about what this marriage is or isn’t.”
“That’s not true. I didn’t ask for any of this. Your mother sent a matchmaker to propose to me, not the other way around. If you let me go, I’ll go back to India.” Even as the words rush out, I see Papa’s disbelieving face. With a heavy heart I have to admit that going home will not be an option—it will be my last resort.
“Well, that’s not going to happen. You’d better get used to the idea of being married to me.”
“Why do you hate me?”
A long pause follows. When he speaks, his tone sounds almost conciliatory. “I don’t hate you. My parents wanted me to get married, and so I did.”
Wearily, I run my fingers through my hair. When they meet behind my head, I intertwine them, tuck my chin into my chest, and take a few deep breaths. I never thought of him as being trapped like I am. Is it possible that he feels as helpless as I am about the situation we’re in together?
Early in the new year, on a Friday morning, feeling miserable with a sinus headache, I finally heed Wendy’s advice and go home to rest. As I get off the subway and head towards the apartment building, I wonder if I can slip inside without Peter finding out. The last thing I want to do is explain to him why I’m home early. Any confrontation will sap the last bit of energy I have left.
Noiselessly I enter our apartment. My eyes scan the living room and kitchen. No one here except for
two tell-tale half-full glasses—maybe Coke—on the coffee table. Peter has or had a visitor this morning. Quietly I drop my purse on the kitchen counter.
Voices . . . from Peter’s room. I freeze in the hallway outside my bedroom. Shall I ignore them, go inside and shut my door? Reluctantly I decide to let him know that I’m home. It would seem inappropriate if I didn’t tell him.
I knock a few times and then push the knob. What I see sends my hand flying to my mouth. A sound strangles my throat. My feet, rooted to the floor, cannot respond to the signals my brain is sending me to leave. The scene plays like a bad porn movie, uncensored. Feeling shame, anger, and humiliation I whirl around and flee the bedroom.
I grab my purse and dash out. When I reach the emergency exit, I hear Peter call my name. Without turning back I run through the door, and then skip two steps at a time until I reach the lobby. For a few seconds I hesitate, wondering what to do next, and then I zip past some surprised loiterers and rush out. I walk aimlessly, tears of anger and shame streaming down my face. I realize now that it all begins to make sense.
Seeds of doubt had already begun to form in my mind. Sometimes the mind blocks what it cannot or refuses to acknowledge. Small hints and clues had been before me all the time. Now I must face the facts. No matter how hard I try to focus on something else, the indelible picture of two naked bodies intrudes into every thought. Ever since Peter told me that he was in love with someone, I’d braced myself for the worst.
But Peter . . . with Bobby?
·9·
Bloor Street bustles with pedestrians near lunch time, but food has no place in my mind. Already, work and my cold are a distant memory. A stray breeze sends its icy long tentacles through every opening in my coat. I hunch my shoulders and cross my arms tight over my chest. Instinctively, I turn right at Church Street and continue down on Park Road where the crowds thin to a few people.
Although the turmoil in my mind refuses to ease up, a sense of vindication slowly takes hold. Now I understand why my marriage was never consummated. Many unexplained loose ends connect—Bobby’s effeminate mannerisms, his tendency to touch Peter, the dark looks he gave me on my wedding day. Once I even caught him massaging Peter’s back when I left them alone briefly.
How could my parents blame me? Peter has to let me go now. But what if he doesn’t? Papa always threatened to disown us if we caused him to lose face in a big way. I can’t bear the thought of being disconnected from my family.
I wish I knew how the immigration rules work. What if I just call them anonymously and ask? If I divorced Peter without deportation, where would I stay? I have already looked into basement apartment rentals, and if I am extremely frugal, I could make ends meet with my meagre pay. No matter what, I will need to find accommodation soon.
Two street signs at the closest intersection tell me that I am on Bayview at Eglinton. The names don’t mean much to me. I have no idea how to get home from here. I glance at my watch. I have walked for over an hour, I decide that I need to make my way home somehow. I could hail a cab—something I’ve never done in this country before—if I have enough cash in my purse.
Now that awareness of my surroundings has returned, my head weighs like a rock on my neck. The pounding in my temple increases. When a pair of familiar golden arches across the street attracts my attention, I heave a sigh of relief. I will go into McDonald’s, rest, maybe have something to eat, and then ask for directions.
I wait for the traffic lights to change. When the signal turns green, I step off the curb.
“Watch out!” someone yells.
My arm is yanked from behind, and I fall backwards. A car speeds by, missing me by a few inches. I turn to face my savior.
“Thanks, I didn’t see it coming,” I say, and realize that it’s Daniel.
“F . . . idiot . . . ” He grips my arm, keeping me upright. “Are you alright?” he asks.
“Uh, no, I mean, yes . . . I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry I pulled so hard. I hope I haven’t hurt your arm.”
“My arm’s fine, thank you . . . ”
His lips move, but I hear nothing, and in seconds, I see nothing.
When my eyes open, they take some time to focus on the face peering at me. I wasn’t hallucinating after all. Daniel’s palm feels cool as it smoothes back my hair over my forehead. With a start I realize that I am seated on a hard chair resting my head on his arm. My tongue seems swollen, its texture rough and dry like sandpaper. “Wha . . . what happened? Where am I?”
His frown eases. “You almost got hit by a car and then you fainted.”
“Oh.” The events leading up to my blackout flood back into my memory. I shudder and resist the trembling in my hands.
“What are you doing walking in the cold when you’re clearly sick?”
“I went home because I was sick, but then something happened there and I had to leave.”
“How are you feeling now? Let me get you something to drink.”
He disengages his arm and stands. A sense of loss washes over me. “Uh, I’m fine. I just need to go home.”
He leaves and returns with a paper cup of water and asks, “Where do you live?”
I take a sip and reply, “I’ll get a taxi.”
His eyes narrow. “No, I’ll drive you home.”
“Please don’t bother. I’ve been so much trouble already.” If anyone from the Hakka community saw me inside a car with a fankwei by myself, I would be the hottest gossip for a while.
“You’re not going anywhere by yourself today.” The expression on his face defies me to argue. And I’m glad that the decision is taken out of my hands. And frankly, a part of me wants to fling my arms around him and let him continue to hold me, but I’m insane to think such thoughts.
All the way home, my thoughts keep me occupied. I don’t know how to analyze my emotions. I caught Peter cheating with Bobby today and now I’m riding in a car with a fankwei, a white man whose presence makes me toss away all the values I grew up with. I would never ride in any vehicle alone with another man unless he was my fiancé, husband or a close relative. No, not since I brought Mama’s wrath on me when I came home with Mandy’s older brother one evening. Mandy and I, along with two other friends, had gone to see a movie one afternoon and our taxi driver refused to go any further than Mandy’s place. She’d asked Ken to give me a ride home on his motorcycle. The neighbours who saw us together assumed that we were dating and would, of course, get engaged soon. Not only did Mama berate me when I arrived home, but later, when I heard Mrs Wong congratulate Mama, I had to brace myself for another round of her verbal cannon. I could have taken a rickshaw home from Mandy’s, but I didn’t think clearly. Now here I am, again, alone with—I can see the horror on Mama’s face—a fankwei.
When we stop at a light, Daniel glances at me sideways. “Are you feeling better?”
I nod and say stiffly, “Yes, thank you.”
“What were you doing in a neighbourhood you’re not familiar with?”
My head throbs. “I needed to get out.”
“When you’re sick? A bit foolish, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not if you were in my shoes.” Blood rushes to my face.
He shrugs. “Okay, I don’t know why you would want to go walking far from your home in the middle of winter, especially in the condition you’re in.”
I whisper, “I have a good reason for my actions.”
We do not speak until we reach Bloor Street where I direct him to my place.
When he stops his car in front of the apartment building, I sit still for a moment. “Thank you,” I finally manage.
“Are you going to be alright?”
“Yes.”
“Let me walk you to your apartment.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but it’s not a good idea.”<
br />
One foot outside, I look up and see Peter coming through the doorway, his workbag swinging by his side. With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I say, “That’s my husband coming toward us.”
Daniel casts a curious gaze at Peter, who approaches us with a thunderous look on his face.
Daniel opens his door and springs to his feet. He sprints around the front of the car and stops beside me. Peter glares at the fankwei. Unperturbed, Daniel sticks out his hand.
“Hi, my name is Daniel Russell. Your wife fainted by the roadside. I happened to be nearby when it happened and drove her home. She should see a doctor.”
Peter scowls and ignores the proffered hand. “Thank you. I’ll take her upstairs,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Daniel mutters as he turns and stalks back to the driver’s side of the car.
Over the hood, I cast an apologetic glance at him. “Thanks for the ride.”
He says, “Take care of yourself. See you around.”
A nudge at my elbow reminds me of Peter.
I toss my head back, looking straight ahead, and walk away from him. He follows me inside the lobby, and then he grabs my arm.
“Pretty convenient for you that the white guy was around when you supposedly fainted, huh?”
I shrug his hands off and press the elevator button.
“I’m talking to you.” He hisses.
Something snaps inside my head and I whip around. And I spit one word out at a time, “You’ve got some nerve judging me. I was sick, and I got a ride home with someone who was there when I passed out. After I saw what you were up to this morning—”
“Who did you tell?”
Just then, the elevator groans and the door slides apart. Faking nonchalance, I step inside, turn around, and give him the most withering look I can muster. My knees tremble and I reach for the buttons panel for support.
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