by Ovidia Yu
She had been a little apprehensive of how Mike would take the news of Allison’s death. His ex-wife had been an off-the-wall loony, but the man had once found her worth marrying. Now the woman was no longer a threat, so Josephine could afford to be gracious. Mike would be in Singapore soon, and part of her was very glad that what had happened to Allison had happened before his arrival.
Though Josephine had met Allison in person only a few times, she knew how vindictive the woman had been. That was why Josephine had been so adamant that she didn’t want Mike’s ex-wife to know they were engaged. Dreadful as it was, Allison’s murder actually made things much easier for Josephine and Mike Fitzgerald. Now they could go ahead without being afraid that a crazy woman was going to come and wreck everything.
“I wish you could come over sooner,” Josephine said. “I wish we could just move everything up or just go away together and forget about all these awful people!” She did not really mean that. Mike had booked a suite at the Shangri-La, where they would be staying while he was in Singapore. Their engagement party was going to be in the Shangri-La’s Amethyst Room. It was not a very large room, but then they had planned to have a very, very small (but still classy) party. But now their main reason for keeping things small and quiet was dead . . .
“We can probably get the Shangri-La to give us a bigger room, if they don’t have any other bookings. Some of my old schoolmates married people it would be useful for you to know if we’re going to be living part of the year in Singapore. I can invite them if we get a bigger room.”
Mike did not answer immediately. Josephine had rolled onto her back as she talked, but now she sat up and her eyes flicked to the image of Mike on the iPad screen. Mike was better looking in person than on-screen and seemed to be staring at her left shoulder. Josephine knew this was because of the position of the camera on his MacBook and quickly redirected her own eyes to her device’s tiny camera window.
“It probably won’t cost much more.”
“Maybe we should wait a bit,” Mike said. “There are so many complications now.” His out-of-focus hand blurred across the screen as he rubbed his eyes.
“Wait?” Josephine said sharply. “We’ve been waiting.” She was about to remind him that the biggest and nastiest of their complications was dead, but she heard the shrill note in her voice and stopped herself in time. Allison was dead and Josephine was alive—she had already won. She just had to anchor down her prize before the complication inside her grew much larger.
Mike had always refused to discuss his ex-wife with her. He said there was no point dwelling on things that could not be changed. “Define the lesson and move on,” she had heard him telling his children. Oh, those children. Of course Mike was probably thinking of those blasted children. It was because of them that Mike had been tied to his ex-wife even after their divorce. Josephine had done her best to win them over on her last visit to England, but what did you talk about to children? They seemed to adore their mother even after a restraining order was needed to prevent Allison from wrecking the house and attacking their babysitter. Josephine pulled her attention back to the screen and saw uncertainty in Mike’s face. What had she said to trigger that? Oh . . . Josephine continued in the same urgent tone: “Can you imagine what it must be like for the poor kids, having to go to school, having to carry on with their—whatever—without knowing what’s going to happen to them next?”
It worked. Thinking his sweet Josephine had united his children and herself as “we,” a big load lifted in Mike Fitzgerald’s mind. “We’ll work something out,” he promised with a warm smile. “We’ll talk to them together and see how they feel about living in Singapore.”
There was no way Josephine wanted Mike’s children in Singapore with them. Allison had always turned to Mike when she got into trouble or ran out of money, but at least that could be handled with a call to a lawyer or a bank. Having two stepchildren underfoot all the time was a different matter. She would have to look into boarding schools . . . but that could wait till after they were married.
“How are the children taking it?” she asked, adding, “Poor things,” to sound sympathetic rather than ghoulishly curious.
“I suppose I should talk to that sister of hers,” Mike said without answering her question. “Do you know what she plans to do?”
“About Allison, you mean?”
“No, about the bloody financial crisis. Or why don’t I ask you what you plan to do about the financial crisis, huh?”
Josephine said nothing. She would get him to work on his anger management issues, but not till after they were safely married.
“So you’re going to get all hurt and sensitive on me now?”
Josephine still did not say anything but looked away and gave a muffled little sniff. It worked.
“Look, sweets, I’m sorry. But you’ve got to understand the pressure I’m under. You don’t know what the last few years with Allison were like and then all this. I wish she hadn’t dragged Singapore into it. It’s almost as though this is one of her manipulations.”
“She’s dead, Mike. No more manipulations.”
“Yes. Of course. If her sister’s already in Singapore she might want to take care of everything before I get there. But I’ll send you something. Tell her I’ll help with the expenses. Just make sure you see the receipts and make her sign for anything you give her.”
“Okay.” Though Josephine didn’t think Vallerie would be up to handling anything. The woman had fallen apart, wailing that Allison’s husband and children should be with her, but she was not going to tell Allison’s ex-husband that.
“Do you know what happened to her? All they told me is she was alone in the hotel room and someone came in and killed her.”
“That’s all I know.”
“Was she—did they do anything else to her?”
“I don’t think she was raped,” Josephine said. Though why should that be so important to him? “So are you coming over earlier then?”
“I suppose I should try to. At least there are compensations.”
She knew he was trying to be nice, even trying to flirt a little. But Josephine was not sure that she wanted to be a compensation. And she had her own news for him. “Mike, I have something important to tell you.”
“Hang on just a sec. I’ve got a call coming through. One of the kids—”
While she waited Josephine thought about what she was going to tell Mike, what she hoped he would say to her . . . and what he would probably say. “You must do whatever you think best” was one of Mike’s favorite responses, which said exactly nothing. What she really wanted him to say was “That’s wonderful, I’m so happy for us, let’s get married right away!” but though this sounded good in her fantasies, she knew it was not likely to come out of the practical and systematic Mike Fitzgerald.
Then just as quickly he was back and already reaching out to break the connection as he said, “Sorry, sweet lips. Got to go.” She heard someone at the door, knocking and calling out to him. She could not make out what they were saying but there was something strangely familiar—almost a Singaporean timbre—about their voices.
“Wait, Mikey—I didn’t get my good-bye kiss—who’s that calling you?”
But her screen went dead. Josephine waited for Mike to call back but he did not. That was the problem with long-distance communications. Was it Myanmar or Cambodia Mike Fitzgerald was in now? Josephine was not really interested enough to keep track of countries without designer malls. Besides, another call was coming in for her. It was a local number, so she took her time getting to it. There was no one in Singapore she wanted to speak to with any urgency. And she wanted to take a moment to enjoy the sensation of being in touch with Mike, even if only via Skype. They would not be separated for much longer now. And once they were married she would put an end to his traveling to places she was not interested in.
Josephine had no objections to marrying a divorcé. By the time a man had proved himself someone w
orth marrying, chances were he was already married—or unmarried for reasons that might surface disastrously later. But a dead first wife was much more respectable and far less trouble than a divorced one. So as far as Josephine was concerned, things were going very well with Mike. With Gucci, Lanvin, Moncler, and Stella McCartney now making clothes for children, Josephine would definitely have the edge over all the other mothers when it came to dressing a child, as long as its father could afford her. The biggest problem with winning a beauty title was how swiftly your year of glory passed in an exhausting crush of events. And how it dated you forever after. The first question most people asked was “What year did you win the title?” followed by “You still look quite young” or “You look exactly the same,” which was both untrue and condescending. Winning beauty pageants had catapulted Oprah, Diane Sawyer, and Halle Berry into celebrity-status careers—why couldn’t the same have happened for her? After years of waiting for success Josephine knew why: because she was trapped in Singapore. The ex–beauty queens Singapore considered most successful were running companies and giving talks to graduates on how “looks are not enough” in between being photographed jogging with handsome husbands and teaching cute children the importance of recycling. In other words, no success at all as far as Josephine was concerned. She needed a husband who could get her out of Singapore.
“Madame, Madame Anne phoned to say if you want to sit in the chair she will push you one round while she is walking the dog. You can go out and come back before it rains. And Commissioner Raja said since the restaurant is closed today he will take you out to eat dinner.”
“Tell him he can bring me out for dessert. By the time that man is free to eat dinner I starve to death already!” The café might be closed, but there was always something to eat as they prepared for the coming week.
Vallerie looked curious but Aunty Lee shook her head casually. “Old friends,” she said. “Old people like us, we have to stay in touch.”
Anne Peters was a longtime Binjai Park neighbor. Anne was also Cherril’s mother-in-law, and she and Aunty Lee had grown closer since Aunty Lee helped resolve her daughter Marianne’s death two years ago.
Of course Aunty Lee was still not able to go on their morning walks, but she had so missed their chats that one of her late husband ML’s old wheelchairs (there were advantages to having a house with two storerooms) had been pressed into service.
“Even without the exercise it’s nice to get outside and look at trees,” Aunty Lee said. She was very fond of trees, especially the enormous old trees that had sheltered Singaporeans long before the days of air-conditioned walkways and shopping malls. Whatever people might say about Lee Kuan Yew these days now that the country, like a strictly raised teenager, was demanding more freedom, Aunty Lee would always appreciate Singapore’s first prime minister for conceptualizing Singapore as a “garden city” and planning for trees as well as buildings. “Nina, will you bring the chair? Vallerie, do you want to come?”
She knew Vallerie would say no.
Anne Peters pushed Aunty Lee’s wheelchair while Aunty Lee held on to Tammy’s leash as the dog zigzagged among fascinating smells, other dogs, and the humans in her pack. Though Aunty Lee was quite able to hobble around with her stick indoors, she enjoyed the stately progress they made. It was a brief window of coolness, the sky gray with storm clouds announcing a coming shower.
“The last time I remember doing this was when I was pushing Marianne around in her little pram.” Anne Peters laughed. Anne was a slim, gracious woman who seemed proud to those who did not know her well. Aunty Lee, who knew her very well, liked and loved the fragile woman protected by her shell of respectability.
As the women enjoyed their gentle promenade, admiring the plants and trees and criticizing renovations in progress, Aunty Lee filled in Anne Peters on all that had happened .
“So Cherril’s not involved in anything?”
“Not at all.”
As always, the mention of her daughter-in-law led to Anne lamenting her lack of children. “I know she is still young, but if they don’t do something soon it will be too late before they know it. I thought I would have lots of time to have a third, maybe a fourth one. Two boys and two girls, I thought. And maybe one more just to spoil and play with. But then I blinked and now I’m waiting for my first grandchild.”
“Have you asked Mycroft?”
“Mycroft?” Anne Peters laughed. “Mycroft doesn’t tell me anything. I don’t mean just work and confidential things. But you ask him ‘How was your day, what did you have for lunch?’ And it’s like he has to swim up to the surface from a great depth and it takes him a while to remember who you are. Then finally he says ‘fine’ or something to that effect, and of course by that time you’ve forgotten what you asked him!
“I asked Cherril, ‘Don’t you find it irritating that he doesn’t talk?’ and the girl said, ‘Better he’s not good at talking than he talks too much.’” Anne Peters smiled as they walked. “I told her that her mother had brought her up to be happily married.”
Aunty Lee knew her friend had been initially wary of her son’s choice of wife. It was not Cherril being Chinese that she minded, but her having been an air stewardess. Some people, especially women, were prejudiced against air stewardesses, even though they were better equipped to deal with emergencies than most other women. Fortunately Anne seemed to have gotten over that after their marriage.
“After what happened to—what happened two years ago, it seems ridiculous to get upset at anything else. I wanted to die. Or to kill somebody. Just to see how it felt, just to show someone else how it felt to lose a child.” The wheelchair slowed to a stop.
Aunty Lee shook her head. “But you didn’t.”
“No, because it wouldn’t have brought my poor baby girl back. And it was destroying me. My husband and son, they keep things inside. It is their way of dealing with it.”
Aunty Lee’s way of dealing with her own loss when ML died had been to work. She had cooked and cleaned and organized till she was too tired to miss her husband—and she had still missed him. Though years had passed, now that she couldn’t walk freely, the memory of the miserable lethargy of those early days of loss returned.
Tammy broke the mood by giving a sharp, inquiring bark and the women laughed. “Sorry, Tammy,” Anne said, and started pushing the wheelchair again.
Tammy trotted purposefully ahead of them, reaching the end of her leash, then stopping to investigate something with her nose so the two women overtook her and she had to race to catch up, panting with satisfaction and giving Aunty Lee a token lick before slobbering her affection on Anne.
“Has Cherril said anything to you about her parents? Parents can be so difficult,” Anne Peters said. “There’s so much unspoken social prejudice. My parents were educated and enlightened, and it was still difficult for them when I married Mycroft’s father. I don’t think Cherril’s family was happy about her marrying an Indian man. It’s not just Chinese people. Even among Indians there’s all this internal prejudice against people with darker or lighter skins.”
“You can’t beat the Chinese. We have prejudices against different dialect groups, different accents, different times you left China, just against everybody who is different in any way. And then for people who are the same as ourselves we are prejudiced against people who are richer or poorer, who went to government schools or mission schools, who went to university abroad instead of locally . . . there is always some excuse to be prejudiced.”
They laughed. At some level prejudice was a survival instinct. What was different might be dangerous.
“I wonder if Cherril’s parents told her not to have children in case her half-Indian babies come out black.”
“No way. Chinese mothers always want grandchildren no matter whether they come out black, white, blue, or green. And no matter what color they will love them and call them naughty to ward off bad luck. Don’t worry.”
By this time they had made their
way back to the café. There was an unfamiliar man in uniformed overalls hesitating in front of the shop.
“Hello!” Aunty Lee called out as soon as she noticed him, leaning forward in the wheelchair as though she could urge it forward. “Who are you looking for?”
“Cooking oil delivery for Mrs. Rosie Lee?” the man said. “More in the truck.” He was clearly not a regular supplier as his delivery truck was pulled up in front of the shop and all Aunty Lee’s suppliers knew to use the back service lane, where they had direct access to the kitchen storeroom. Fortunately, Aunty Lee thought.
Anne Peters looked into the truck and saw more bottles, canisters, and even plastic buckets of viscous yellow fluid . . . and she also saw Aunty Lee looking guilty.
“You’ve been buying things online again?”
“I asked for samples only. I have to try out and taste before I can decide what to buy, right? I thought they would send one bottle each.”
“They may have.” Anne looked into the truck again. “Big bottles. Barrels, really.”
“Bring him back to the house,” Aunty Lee told Nina, who had appeared. “And tell him to put them with all the others. I will try them out at home, not in the shop.”
“Cherril doesn’t want to try out cooking oil in the shop?” Anne asked innocently. She got along well enough with her daughter-in-law. But that just made Cherril’s possible skirmishes with Aunty Lee all the more interesting.
“Cherril thinks we should buy the cheapest cooking oil we can get,” Aunty Lee explained. “She says my regular suppliers are overcharging me. She said there is no difference in taste whether I fry keropok in peanut oil or canola oil and I should focus on the bottom line. The bottom line is how does it taste! I must try out the samples first before I can serve them to customers. I will be frying prawn crackers and taupok at home once I get back on feet. Do you want?” Generally Aunty Lee was faithful to her regular suppliers, but since being immobilized she had discovered the world of online shopping.