Charlie Chan Is Dead 2

by Jessica Hagedorn

Sometimes when there is a new lady who wants me to go over to do her waxing, she will ask, “How do I know that you will do a good job? It requires such talent and if you do anything wrong, I’ll have to go straight to hospital.” So first I give the new lady the names of some other ladies that I work for, so she can call and find out. And then I tell her that I wax my own thing, not just others’, so there’s no need to worry. All of them, when they hear this, are so shocked! I’m just a poor village girl, so what do I need to wax for? As though you have to be rich to do it! Am I not a woman like them? Can’t I be beautiful like them? If my own sister’s husband likes it, then won’t mine also want it?

  I went back to my village for my oldest sister’s marriage, and just to teach her how ignorant she is, I took some wax and clean cloths, and I waxed her. What a fuss that stupid girl made! I had to sit on top of her so she wouldn’t run away. But then after the wedding, her husband wrote to me that I should come back to the village and wax his wife again, because everyone in the village tells him he’s lucky to have such a clean high-class woman. Until I return, my sister is pulling the hair out from down there one by one with her fingers.

  Everyone has something that they can wax, so why not me? I only wax myself once in a while. It’s not so easy for me. To wax down there, since I can’t bend down to see properly, I have to sit on a mirror. Who would think I would ever look at my own thing? Even all those big-big ladies never look at their thing . . . and me, I’ve seen so many dozens by now.

  “Don’t wax it yet, you’re not married!” the ladies keep saying. “You’re still thin and pure and innocent, and you’re not prepared like a married woman for what happens down there. You’ll start feeling wrong feelings between your legs and then no man will take a chance with you. That’s why we don’t let our unmarried daughters wax down there.” I tell you these ladies think they know everything. I am going to have a love marriage, and have enough money saved so that I can give a good dowry. What husband will say no to that?

  The real reason these ladies don’t allow their young daughters to wax down there is because then the daughters will want to have love marriages! And then all the life’s work for these rich-rich ladies will go to waste, because if Indian girls are allowed to marry whichever man they want, then who will marry the ladies’ good-for-nothing sons? They’re very clever, these rich ladies. But very stupid also. They force their daughters to be beautiful so they can arrange a match with a rich boy, but in the end they are marrying off their girls to boys who are exactly the same as their fathers, who make this and that excuse and don’t touch one finger to their wives who are waxed clean and ready from head to toe.

  So every day, there is plenty of business for the beauty salon, giving these ladies manicure, pedicure, facial, waxing, haircut, massage . . . And then some simple village girl like me will come along who doesn’t know anything and they will cunningly find some way to get her to wax their thing. And when they feel something down there which makes them feel like human beings, then they’re happy.

  But who wants to listen to what I have to say? So I keep my mouth shut and do my work. When the time comes to get married, I will have saved enough money so my husband can treat me well. Until then, I am living without worries, so what do I care?

  BECCAH

  from COMFORT WOMAN

  Nora Okja Keller

  On the fifth anniversary of my father’s death, my mother confessed to his murder. We had been peeling the shrimp for his chesa, slicing through the crackling skins, popping the gray and slippery meat, ripe as fruit, into the kitchen sink. My mother, who was allergic to my father’s favorite food, held her red and puffy hands under cold running water and scratched at her fingers. “Beccah-chan,” she told me without looking up, “I killed your father.”

  My mother picked at her hands, rubbing at the blisters bubbling between her fingers. I turned the water off and wrapped her hands in a dish towel. “Shh, Mommy,” I said. “Don’t start.”

  “Never happen like this,” she said, trying to snap her fingers under the cloth. “I had to work at it.”

  I led her to the kitchen table, clearing a place for her by pushing the stacks of offerings we planned to burn after I ate the remembrance feast my mother made to appease my father’s spirit. My father died when I was five, and this yearly meal, with its persistent smell of the ocean, and the smoke and the ash that would penetrate our apartment for days after we burned the Monopoly money and paper-doll clothes, supplanted my dim memories of an actual man. Even when I unearthed the picture I had of him from my underwear drawer, stealing a look, I saw him less and less clearly, the image fading in almost imperceptible gradations each time I exposed it to light and scrutiny.

  NORA OKJA KELLER is the author of Comfort Woman and Fox Girl. Born in Seoul, Korea, in 1965, She lives in Hawaii with her husband and two daughters. She received the Pushcart Prize in 1995 and the American Book Award in 1998, and is currently at work on her next novel.

  What stays with me, though, is the color of his eyes. While his face, his body, sit in shadows behind the black of the Bible he always carried with him, the blue of his eyes sharpen on me. At night before I fell asleep, I would try to imagine my father as an angel coming to comfort me. I gave him the face and voice of Mister Rogers and waited for him to wrap me in that cardigan sweater, which would smell of mothballs and mint and Daddy. He would spirit me away, to a home on the Mainland complete with plush carpet and a cocker spaniel pup. My daddy, I knew, would save my mother and me, burning with his blue eyes the Korean ghosts and demons that fed off our lives.

  But when he rolled me into the sweater, binding my arms behind me, my father opened his eyes not on the demons but on me. And the blue light from his eyes grew so bright it burned me, each night, into nothingness.

  I don’t remember what I felt the day my mother told me she had killed my father. Maybe anger, or fear. Not because I believed she had killed him, but because I thought she was slipping into one of her trances. I remember telling her, “Okay,” in a loud, slow voice, while I listed in my head the things that I needed to do: call Auntie Reno, buy enough oranges and incense sticks to last two weeks, secure the double locks on the doors when I left for school so my mother couldn’t get out of the house.

  Most of the time my mother seemed normal. Not normal like the moms on TV—the kind that baked cookies, joined the PTA, or came to weekly soccer games—but normal in that she seemed to know where she was and who I was. During those times, my mother would get up when she heard my alarm clock go off in the morning, and before I pressed the second snooze alarm, she’d have folded the blankets on her side of the bed, poured hot water for the tea, and made breakfast: fresh rice mixed with raw egg, shoyu, and Tabasco. After eating, we’d dress and then walk down the water-rotted hallway of our building, past the “three o’clock” drunk asleep on the bottom stairs, to the bus stop. Instead of continuing straight to school, I’d wait with her until the number 8 came to take her to Reno’s Waikiki Bar-B-Q Hut, where she worked as fry cook and clean-up girl.

  The days my mother was well enough to catch the bus, I would eat all of my school lunch at one time instead of wrapping half of it to eat before bed. Working at Auntie Reno’s, my mother was able to bring home leftovers from the daily special; Auntie Reno, who isn’t a blood relative, was good to us in that way: she always made sure we had enough to eat.

  I have a habit I picked up from those small-kid days, one that I can’t seem to shake even now. Before eating my meals, I set aside a small mound of rice—or whatever I’m eating—as a sacrifice for the spirits or for God, in case either exists. Even eating out with friends, I push the food around on my plate, severing a small portion, and think the prayer I have prayed ever since I can remember: “Please, God—please, spirits and Induk—please, Daddy and whoever is listening: Leave my mother alone.”

  I loved my mother during the normal times. She laughed and sang songs she made up. Instead of telling me to clear my papers and books off the
table for dinner, she’d sing it to me. We’d play hatto, and while she dealt the cards, she’d sometimes tell me stories about my father or Korea—stories that began “Once on a time” but occasionally hinted at possible truths. And she’d sit and watch me do my homework, as if I were the TV, and mumble about how smart I was, so smart that could I really be her daughter? Though I used to grumble at her—“What? What you staring at? I got two heads or something?”—inside I was really loving it, seeing how she smiled, how she looked at me.

  But always, no matter how many piles of rice I left for the gods, no matter how many times I prayed, there came the times when—as Auntie Reno used to say—the spirits claimed my mother.

  When the spirits called to her, my mother would leave me and slip inside herself, to somewhere I could not and did not want to follow. It was as if the mother I knew turned off, checked out, and someone else came to rent the space. During these times, the body of my mother would float through our one-bedroom apartment, slamming into walls and bookshelves and bumping into the corners of the coffee table and the television. If I could catch her, I would try to clean her cuts with Cambison ointment, dab the bruises with vinegar to stop the swelling. But most times I just left her food and water and hid in the bedroom, where I listened to long stretches of thumping accentuated by occasional shouts to a spirit named Induk.

  It was worse when I was younger. When my father died, leaving us as guests of his most recent employers, at the Miami Mission House for Boys, my mother cashed what was left of his estate—several pieces of family jewelry, pearls mostly, and shares in a retirement village—paid off his hospital bills, and tried to return to Korea. She got as far as Hawai‘i when—not knowing anyone, broke, and with a young child to care for—my mother had to put me in school and find work. I remember my mother drifting in and out of under-the-table jobs—washing dishes in Vietnamese restaurants, slinging drinks in Korean bars on Ke‘eaumoku—stringing together enough change to pay the weekly rent on a dirty second-floor apartment off Kapi‘olani Boulevard. I remember the darkness of that apartment: the brown imitation-wood wall paneling blackened from exhaust from the street, the boarded-up windows, the nights without electricity when we could not pay the bill. And I remember nights that seemed to last for days, when my mother dropped into a darkness of her own, so deep that I did not think she would ever come back to me.

  At Ala Wai Elementary, where I was enrolled, I was taught that if I was ever in trouble I should tell my teachers or the police; I learned about 911. But in real life, I knew none of these people would understand, that they might even hurt my mother. I was on my own. At least until Auntie Reno discovered my mother’s potential.

  The way Auntie Reno tells it, she was the only person who would hire my mother. Though my mother could speak English, Korean, and Japanese—which was a big plus in Waikiki—she had no real job skills or experience. “Out of dah goodness of my heart, I wen take your maddah as one cook,” Auntie Reno told me. “Even though she nevah even know how for fry hamburgah steak.”

  The first few months on the job, my mother did well, despite the oil burns on her arms and face. Then the spirits—Saja the Death Messenger and Induk the Birth Grandmother—descended upon her, fighting over her loyalty and consciousness. During these times in which she shouted and punched at the air above her head, dancing as if to duck return jabs, I was afraid to let her out of the house, both because she might never come back and because—like a wandering yongson ghost finding its way back to its birthplace—she might. After roaming the streets, she could have led everyone back to me, the one who would have to explain my mother’s insanity. Each morning during her spell, I locked the door on her rantings and ravings, and each afternoon I raced home, fearful of what I’d find when I slipped back into our apartment.

  The day Reno found out about my mother, I had just come home from school to find her dancing. At first I thought that she was back to normal, having fun listening to the radio or trying out a new American dance step, the bump-and-grind the teenagers were doing on Band-stand every week. But then I noticed the silence. Arms flailing, knees pumping into her chest, my mother danced without music. She must have been dancing a long time in that hot, airless apartment, because she was drenched in sweat: her hair slapped against, then stuck to her blotchy face, and water seeped from her pores, soaking the chest and underarms of her tunic blouse.

  “Mom,” I yelled at her. When she didn’t look at me, I tried to grab one of her arms. She wrenched herself away and kept dancing.

  “I got something for you to eat.” I held up the part of my school lunch that I had wrapped in a napkin and brought home: half of my pig-in-the-blanket and a peanut butter cookie. I could not remember the last time she ate. I remember hoping that she had eaten while I was at school, but when I checked the refrigerator and the cabinets, whatever food we had seemed untouched.

  She danced away from me, hearing music I could not hear, dancing and dancing until her rasping gasps for breath filled the air and permeated each bite of pig-in-the-blanket I took. The food tasted like sweat and hot air, but I ate because I was hungry and because I could not let it go to waste. I ate everything, not even saving any of the cookie to place on the shrine on top of our bookshelf, because I was mad at the spirits and at God for taking my mother away from me.

  While I tried to do my homework and my mother continued to dance, Auntie Reno came pounding at our door. “Let me in,” she bellowed. “I know you in dere, Akiko! You slackah! You lazy bum! You owe me for leaving me short so many days!”

  I ran to the door and yelled through the crack: “Mrs. DeSilva-Chung, my mom is sick.”

  “Lie!” she yelled back. “How come when I wen call, I heard her laugh and laugh and den hang up?”

  “Uh,” I answered, trying to remember if I had forgotten to unplug the phone before I left for school.

  Sweet Mary, the woman who lived next door, kicked the common wall between us so hard that the dishes in our sink rattled. “Shaddup!” she screeched through the walls. “I goin’ call dah police! Whatchu think this is, Grand Central Station?”

  Mrs. DeSilva-Chung, my Auntie Reno, yelled back, “Eh, you shaddup!” but she stopped banging the door and made her voice real sweet: “If you don’t let me in, Rebeccah honey, I dah one goin’ call dah police.”

  I unsnapped the locks and pulled the door open. “Won’t you please come in?” I told her. Behind me, I could hear my mother panting and wheezing.

  “Ho,” Auntie Reno said as she pushed her way past me. The blue-and-silver scarf she had wrapped around her poodle-permed head snagged on the doorframe. “Goffunnit,” she grumbled, yanking the scarf away from the frame. She folded the scarf over her hair, tucking the tight curls under the cloth. “Where’s your maddah?” she growled, and when she looked up and saw my mother twirling in her see-through clothes, Auntie Reno breathed, “Ho-oly shit,” and let the scarf float to the floor.

  I closed the door and watched Auntie Reno watch my mother. A spider’s line of spittle swung from my mother’s gasping mouth as she swayed from the top of the coffee table. When she finally dropped to the ground, her chest heaving as she gulped air, Auntie Reno said, “Wow. I never seen that before.”

  “Shut up!” I marched over to where my mother lay and folded my arms across my chest. “She’s not crazy!”

  Auntie Reno looked at me, then blinked her eyes slowly, so that I could see the wings of her sparkly-blue eye shadow. “Honey girl, no one evah told you nevah jump to conclusions?” She walked forward. Stopping in front of me, she bent down and touched my mother’s face.

  My mother’s eyes opened. “Why have you come here? Dirty person from a house full of mourning, tend to your own mother: Teeth are biting at her head, and rats are nesting at her feet.”

  Auntie Reno gasped. “What dah hell dat crazy woman saying?”

  “Bad girl, bad daughter!” Rolling into a crouch, my mother yelled at Reno. “You pretended to take care of her, wiping her drool and her g
undinghi, but you only wished for her to die! You only wish to save money for yourself. You wouldn’t buy your mother a decent bed in life, and look, now, you won’t buy her one in death—”

  “No!” I rushed forward to put a hand over my mom’s mouth. “She doesn’t know what—”

  Auntie Reno waddled quickly to the door. “I jus’ go now. Uh, I call her wen she feeling better.” She bent to pick up her scarf.

  Before I could stop her, my mother rushed toward Reno and grabbed the scarf. She twined it around her own neck, closed her eyes, and started to rock back and forth on the cushions of her feet. “You, Baby Reno, you always wanted dis scarf. So did your sister, but I nevah wanted for you two for fight over um. ‘Bury it wit me,’ I told you. You made me one promise, you good-for-nuttin’, and still you wen tell yoah sister I gave um to you.”

  Reno dropped to her knees. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “Eh, Mama, wasn’t li’ dat, I swear on your memory.”

  “Mommy, stop,” I said, jumping up to untangle the scarf from her neck. I pulled it from her, felt the sweat that had soaked into the material, and offered it to Reno. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mother is sick, and sometimes she just starts talking about nothing, rambling on about anykine stuff.”

  “Try wait, Mama—please no leave me again.” Auntie Reno crawled to my mother’s feet. “Mama? Akiko-san? Please,” she whispered, “you can tell me anyting else?”

  My mother hummed, then went to lie down on the couch.

  Reno wiped at her eyes, smudging her makeup, and listened for a while to my mother’s monotonous buzzing. “Your maddah might be one crazy lady,” she said, holding up her hand when she thought I would protest, “but she got dah gift. She was right, you know.” She glared at me, knotting the scarf in her fist and quickly adding, “Not about everyting: my maddah did say I could have dis as one—whatchu-call—keepsake; my sistah only tink I was suppose to bury em wit dah body. But—and I stay shame for dis—I nevah put my maddah’s remains where she asked, and now the city moving all dah graves where my maddah stay. Tractahs digging em up now.”