The Queen of Tears

by Chris Mckinney

  But the best job she could find was cocktailing at the California. The name itself made her shudder and think of the grape stilts following her all the way to Nevada. And when she’d seen the uniform—black pumps, fishnet stockings, a bathing-suit bottom, and a white tuxedo shirt—she felt the sudden urge to feed the baby Darian. Better a surrogate mother for your baby half-sister than bait for men who thought of you as foreign trash. But she’d taken the job. She decided she would not go crawling back to Fresno, no matter what.

  Besides, Donny, formerly Chung Yun, seemed to like Vegas a lot. His English was improving day by day, he made friends at school, other kids who were either dragged or escaped from Southeast Asia, and he seemed to have money to throw around. A couple of times, Won Ju wanted to ask him where he got the money, but he seemed happy for the first time in his life, so she stopped herself from looking into it. Besides, she wasn’t his mother.

  So she worked graveyard shifts and slept during the day when Donny was at school. As she walked through the aisles between “Blazing Seven” dollar slots where the blue-haired ladies sat and pushed buttons like hungry rats hoping a pellet would drop, and the blackjack tables where men with cowboy hats and big bellies held two cards in one hand and sipped whiskey with the other, she envied her sleeping brother. When she walked past the spinning roulette wheel with her round tray, and a young man would slap her on the butt and wink, she envied her male brother. Some of these young men were like the old ladies in that they were mindlessly pushing buttons in hope that a pellet would come out. This was the second place that she’d lived in America, and her opinion of Americans was continuously spiraling downwards.

  Occasionally, there would be tourists from Hawaii. These were the best customers. Some Hawaiian, some Japanese, these guys from paradise were always politely joking around and always tipped well. Sure, they hit on her, but it was usually not a hands-on approach. They would smile and joke in their peculiar style of speaking, and they would whisper in each other’s ears when she walked away with their orders, but they would rarely touch. Besides, they actually looked like they had fun gambling. Their hope of winning seemed more optimistic. Cigarettes dangling from their lips, lame jokes for the dealers, these guys were actually having fun even when they were losing their shirts. Won Ju appreciated this optimism and wondered, even dreamed, what this place Hawaii must be like. She knew her stepfather was from there, but she figured that time in Korea and Fresno must’ve simply jaded him. Who could be unhappy when they lived in a place surrounded by white sandy beaches and crystal-blue oceans? Even though Won Ju didn’t know how to swim, she wanted to go to this place. Surfers and hula girls, even a potential drowning victim could appreciate it.

  But there weren’t enough Hawaiians to make the job a good one. The ones who pushed her buttons weren’t limited to the customers. The button-pushers, the arm-pullers, extended to her fellow employees. A couple of bartenders who she knew kept track of how many cocktail waitresses they slept with would put their hands on her when she’d be dropping off empty glasses. Middle-aged pit bosses would slide her obscene notes with a hundred-dollar chip and scowl when she gave it back to them. Dealers who would be joking around with the customers would slap her on the butt and laugh as she went to get another round of drinks. Sometimes they would say, “Gotta love Asians. Best servers in the business. And they know their role.”

  Customers would laugh along with the dealer. Won Ju was beginning to understand what was wrong with Americans. They thought they deserved. The land of milk and honey. Even those blue-haired ladies playing the Blazing Sevens thought they deserved. So they waited. Pushed buttons and waited. But she blamed herself too. She never fought back. She knew it was her fault for not fighting back. She would remember the airport in Fresno. She could not help but think that they were better than her.

  Coming home at five-thirty in the morning, showering, then cooking breakfast for her brother was routine. She didn’t mind. First she went to the bathroom and removed her makeup and false eyelashes. Then the shower, followed by the application of creams and moisturizers. She then went to the kitchen in her silk bathrobe, wearing a towel on her head. She cooked rice, scrambled three eggs, and fried bacon. Kimchee seemed impossible to come by in Las Vegas, so she made her own and added it to the breakfast menu. She woke her brother up at six-thirty. He usually didn’t get up right away, so she shook him again at six-forty-five. After taking at least thirty minutes to get ready and do his hair, he emerged every day facing the challenge of finishing off more food than his stomach could fit. Three eggs, five pieces of bacon, a huge pile of rice, kimchee, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and a Hostess powdered sugar donut. Won Ju watched as the sweat beaded on his forehead, his cheeks puffed up, and his face gave off a look of determination. She shook her head while writing the usual tardy note for him. He was almost never on time for school.

  When he left, she cleared the table and was happy that he did not vomit that time. Sometimes he ate himself sick. She suspected why he did it. He was small. He was about five-seven and a hundred thirty pounds. Many of the other boys at school must’ve dwarfed him. She imagined the sight of six-foot-two adolescents driving him crazy. He wanted to be an American, and that not only meant you had to speak grammatically incorrect, accent- free English, but it also meant being big. To be a good American, you had to be big. Robert Redford, Paul Newman, they were big and tough. Elvis was so big it showed even in his hair and stomach. Sean Connery, even though he wasn’t really American, was huge. Her brother didn’t want to look like some bellhop in a James Bond movie, he wanted to be James Bond. Even Americans accepted that James Bond was cooler than all Americans. Won Ju knew it was only a matter of time before her brother began puking out martinis, shaken, not stirred. He was already smoking cigarettes with that between-the-index-and-middle-finger style that indicated that he was in absolutely no hurry to finish.

  Won Ju smiled while making her brother’s bed. She walked to his dresser and pulled out an open pack of Marlboros. Cowboy smokes. She pulled one out. She looked at his John Lennon poster. She liked his hair shorter. She walked to the small kitchen. She looked over her shoulder. Still looking for her mother. She lit the cigarette on the gas stove. She walked to her own room and looked in the mirror while smoking. She didn’t like the way she smoked. Her face scrunched up, fighting against the white plumes slowly attacking her face. She smoked quickly and too efficiently, like she was a blue-collar worker who only had a couple of minutes to devour the cigarette. She smoked like she ate. She put out the cigarette and went to the kitchen, where she made herself a small portion of kimchee and rice. It took her fifteen minutes to prepare her food, eat it, and wash her dishes. Twenty minutes later, after taking the towel off of her head, she was fighting to get some sleep.

  She could never sleep. Though her body was often weary, her mind was constantly racing. About five to ten minutes were spent in calculator mode, trying to figure out if rent for the two-bedroom walk-up, grocery, and clothes bills were going to be covered with a hundred to spare for her savings. This thinking about money brought about thoughts on her mother. She wondered, sometimes for over an hour, what her mother was doing in Korea, why she left, was she ever going to return. Then she struggled with the guilt of leaving her stepfather and her baby half-sister alone in Fresno. The guilt was fought by thoughts on how her brother seemed so happy living in Las Vegas.

  Her mother. Everything started from there. She left because of money, she’d said. Won Ju didn’t believe her because ever since she’d known what money was, her mother had had a lot of it. How could one of the most celebrated actresses in Korea not have it? The marriage must’ve been falling apart. What did her mother expect? Her mother could not have forgotten what she could have been, what she was. Fresno had to have reminded her mother that in America, she was nothing.

  Won Ju got out of bed and walked to her bureau mirror. She’d do it often whenever she thought about her mother. Tanned, roundish face. Tanned r
oundish face. Why did her mother not take her with her?

  She did not hate Henry Lee. She did not hate baby Darian. She knew that the reason she had been the housekeeper there was because no one else would do it. Henry would not do it. Donny would definitely not do it. And even her mother had been bad at it when she was around. Well, if no one else was going to do it, why should she? Besides, she was just as unqualified; there were servants in Korea. She was the only one that tried to do it, and that was simply not fair. A girl should find a husband before she becomes a wife and mother. And when Henry had asked if it would be possible to iron his boxer underwear, that was the last straw. Won Ju walked back to the kitchen and ran water over the lit cigarette. The red glow became a black sludge. She went to bed knowing she was right, but feeling the guilt shake her every time she was about to fall asleep.

  She woke up when her brother’s key entered the door. Her eyes opened and Donny peeked into her bedroom. He smiled slyly. She waved him in. He walked in with a couple of school books and looked around the room. “You should put poster on walls. Your room look like hotel room, not home.”

  His English was always improving. She replied in Korean, “I have no idols.”

  His round face combined smile and frown. He said in English: “Then who you want to be?”

  She thought about that and couldn’t come up with anything. She said in Korean, “I don’t know, who’s famous for doing something good?”

  His smile disappeared as he thought. Won Ju wanted to tease him about his futile attempts at growing a mustache and sideburns, but she knew she would hurt his feelings. Finally, he laughed. “I don’t know. Richard Nixon?”

  Won Ju had tried to understand what exactly what Watergate was about, but couldn’t. But she always thought that America must’ve known something was going to happen by just looking at that man. She wondered if Americans would learn their lesson from this, but then what if someone just tried to put a handsome actor up there? Americans would surely be fooled by it. The impatient look her brother gave her broke her out of her mental rambling. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

  Donny switched to Korean. “You never know what to say. You should speak more English, sister. Thinking in two languages broadens the mind. I feel like I’m getting smarter. I want you to have the same feeling.”

  Won Ju sat up. “It’s confusing. Besides, I hear enough English at work. ‘Nice ass, honey.’ ‘I could use a geisha girl.’ ‘Nice hooters.’ There’s a lot of English, but not much thinking going on there.”

  Donny walked to her dresser and sat on it. “Those are compliments. You know what? You need a boyfriend. That might help.”

  She wanted a boyfriend. It wasn’t that she was that lonely; she often liked being alone with her thoughts, but she was curious as to what it would be like. Of course she saw boyfriends and girlfriends on TV’s General Hospital. Who killed Phil? Howe’s vasectomy. Lesley buying her newly found daughter, Laura, everything her heart desired. But she suspected that that wasn’t really what it was like. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected. “I don’t want one,” she said. “I’m too busy.”

  “I found a girlfriend.”

  She was surprised. “Really?”

  “You don’t look surprised.”

  “I’m not. What’s she like?”

  Donny sighed. “Well, she makes me think of all of these wonderful things.”

  “That sounds good. Is she pretty?”

  Donny frowned. “Not really. But she looks better and better the more I’m around her. She also makes me hungry.”

  “For food?”

  “Yah.”

  Donny slowly opened one of his books. He pulled out a joint. It was the first one Won Ju had ever seen. She wanted to demand that he flush it down the toilet, but she stopped herself. “You are crazy. You could go to jail.”

  Donny laughed. “Nobody goes to jail for pot. This is America. The government knows this is fun, harmless stuff. Besides, don’t worry about the police, the paranoia comes afterwards.”

  Won Ju stood up. “I’m not smoking that.”

  “Don’t be such an old woman, sister. It’s fun. I brought this home especially for you. It’s a thank-you gift.”

  “Where did you get the money to pay for that? For that matter, where do you get your money, period?”

  “I’ll tell you if you smoke this with me.”

  Won Ju was definitely curious, but more about the marijuana than the money. Like her thoughts on having a boyfriend, marijuana was something that she heard about, but never experienced. It was supposed to be really good, but again she was skeptical. Besides, she had to work that night. “What else is in it for me?” she asked.

  “I’ll cook you dinner for an entire week.”

  She knew he’d never follow through with it, but she nodded anyway. She said in English, “Let’s geta high, den.”

  Donny jumped off the dresser and cheered.

  -3-

  As she suspected, weed, she called it “weed” now, was overrated. But it was still good. It certainly helped her sleep. It also made her job easier. She didn’t feel as self-conscious; she didn’t feel as guilty. She was a joint-a-day smoker, half when she got home, half before she went to work. Because it wasn’t dangerous, and it did not affect her performance, she didn’t see any problems with it, except that it provided her with information that she’d rather have not known.

  Donny had stolen from their mother. Jewelry and a curious silver knife, the stuff that their mother left behind, it all went to a local pawn shop. Two thousand dollars worth. Won Ju had been extremely upset when she first found out. Not even the weed helped, but after Donny calmed her down and explained it to her, it kind of made sense. The funny thing about it was that it really only took him one sentence to make sense out it for her. In fact, the sentence wasn’t even declarative, or imperative, it was interrogative. “Do you think she’s coming back?”

  Of course not. She wasn’t coming back. Who would? If Won Ju were her mother, would she come back? Seoul or Fresno? A city with hundreds of years of rich history versus a new city filled with farmers? The only thing that would bring her back was her children, and if her children were that important to her she wouldn’t have left in the first place. No, Won Ju thought, the great actress Soong Nan Lee was not going to return to America.

  Won Ju knew that her mother had left the silver knife behind. The night before she’d left, she told Won Ju to keep the knife close to her until her mother returned. Won Ju thought of it as a going-away gift, so she didn’t want anything to do with it and left it in Fresno. But now here was her brother, who’d brought it with them and sold it, a priceless antique, for two hundred dollars at a pawn shop. He sold it to someone who would obviously not know its value, not that her brother did. But Won Ju wasn’t angry. She didn’t miss it. And in a way she was glad that it didn’t go to waste. Besides, the knife only brought back bad memories. It reminded her of the first time she’d seen it, the day she came home from school tattered and beaten in Korea because of her Japanese ancestry. The image of her mother showing it to her was not a happy memory. She’d wanted her mother to hold her quietly that day, instead her mother showed her a side of the great actress that petrified her. She knew her mother could do practically anything, walk from North to South Korea barefooted over shrapnel, make an entire nation adore her, but it never occurred to Won Ju that her mother could kill. And just by looking at her that day, talking about the ancient knife meant to be wielded by virgins for protection, she knew that her mother could indeed kill. She’d wanted to kill. Not out of hurt pride or revenge, but it looked like Soong felt like killing was sometimes a necessity, and she’d be able to do it in a blink of an eye.

  That afternoon years ago planted some extraordinary scenarios in Won Ju’s mind. She knew they were ridiculous, but thought them anyway. How did her father, Dong Jin, really die? Had her mother met and fell in love with Henry Lee in secrecy, years before they supposedly met, and plotted h
is death? They certainly both had the connections. She knew her mother made great men in Korea fall to their knees. She knew that Henry Lee was considered a dangerous and powerful man in Korea. They could have gotten it done. A simple drop in a cup of tea or a glass of scotch. Some kind of top-secret American poison. They could have done it.

  But Won Ju knew she was inventing things in her mind, but she never had control over her mind’s inventions. So she’d laugh at herself and shrug it off. But she’d found out that afternoon that her mother could kill. It was something that awed Won Ju because she knew she never could. But then what could she do that her mother could?

  Great people rarely have great children. Won Ju knew that. She was not destined for greatness. Greatness was not something handed to a person, like a birthday present handed from a parent; greatness was something earned. It was part tirelessness, part luck, part brilliance; it was to be tested by a puzzle impossible to solve. It was rarely obtained, rarely sustained, and never something given, but always something taken. Parents constantly try to give their children this, but it’s like trying to hand someone a cloud from the sky. It is impossible enough to hold on to a cloud, much less place it in another’s grasp. Won Ju was a cocktail waitress in one of the many gaudy casinos in the middle of a North American desert. It was a dry place with hardly a cloud in the sky. Won Ju thought this as she put out her joint and got ready for work.

  Getting drugs in Las Vegas in the 1970s was hardly a problem. Won Ju had known she could’ve approached just about any one of her fellow employees and they would’ve happily obliged, despite their surprise. She’d chosen Andy Martinez, “Chief” to the employees and patrons who were his friends, not because he was the biggest reputed bartender/drug dealer in the casino, but because of the way he looked. Andy was a half-Cherokee/half-Mexican, who, though dark, had eyes that seemed familiar to Won Ju. Indian eyes. Asian eyes. Some of her ancestors had once walked the Bering Strait, and Andy, though she thought it extremely corny, could have been a cousin eight thousand times removed.