Aunty Lee’s Deadly Specials

by Ovidia Yu

  It worked. Dr. Edmond Yong was almost dancing in his seat waiting for her to finish.

  “I know who you are referring to—Dr. Henry Sung, right? Yes? I thought so! Dr. Sung is like a sort of mentor of mine. In fact this procedure I’m telling you about? He will be supervising everything. I am just the robot extension, doing what he tells me, though of course I can pretty much handle it on my own. Such procedures are not that complicated. Not like where you are working with a live donor. Here you only have one set of anesthesia and vitals to worry about because the other one is autopilot, you know what I mean?

  “Anyway, Dr. Sung doesn’t run anything. If that girl told you that, it just shows how little she knows. Dr. Sung doesn’t even run his own clinic anymore, he’s retired. And he can’t operate because of Parkinson’s. Honestly you don’t want a sixty-year-old man who is shaking like that operating on you no matter how experienced he is. But people like me carry out the actual operations. Dr. Sung just supervises.”

  “You are one of the surgeons?” Aunty Lee’s amazement was all the young doctor could have wanted. “Can I get you some more tea? Something else to eat? My deep-fried sardine-and-onion curry puffs should be ready by now. Some people like them very much. I want you to try and tell me whether you young people will like them or not. Do you think I can sell them in the hospital? NUH now got Mister Bean and Delifrance already, right?” The newly renovated National University Hospital now housed a minimall containing fast-food shops as well as a traditional kopitiam, or café.

  A touch of the bell brought Nina and the pastries almost instantly. Edmond noticed Aunty Lee did not immediately continue the medical discussion after the servant left. Was the old woman afraid the girl might be lurking and listening or had her mind wandered?

  “Actually I wouldn’t know. I’m not in the National University Hospital.” The crispy, rich pastry melting in his mouth as it introduced the savory, slightly spicy sardine filling distracted Edmond Yong. If curry puffs were sold in heaven, this was what they would taste like.

  “So you are in SGH? At Outram Road? Or Tan Tock Seng? Or that fancy building on Orchard Boulevard that looks like a posh hotel . . . Camden Medical. You are operating there?”

  “No—no—” It was difficult to answer with his mouth full. Edmond felt he had somehow lost control of the conversation. Aunty Lee was being properly respectful but she wouldn’t stop her questions and he couldn’t stop eating.

  “Chicken and prawn, chicken and potato, and just potato,” Aunty Lee announced, pointing at the different curry puffs. “You must tell me which ones you like best. So where are you working now? You are still working as a doctor, right?” There was just the slightest hint of dubiousness in her voice as she said this. As though she was wondering whether she had been taken in by a con man.

  “Of course I’m still practicing,” Dr. Edmond Yong hastened to reassure her. He felt his reputation (already slightly tarnished, but how could this little old lady know?) impugned by her doubt. Even though at that moment he would have killed for another curry puff, he felt angry with her for daring to doubt him. “In fact there are times when I operate almost every day. Sometimes even twice a day, which is very demanding when you consider how long a procedure takes. It’s not just a matter of going in and fixing a fracture or something, you know. This is serious business. But of course that depends on when a case comes up. Right now there’s not much going on but I expect things to be very busy very soon. That’s why if you are interested in getting your knees taken care of, you should make up your mind soon. Because there is always a long waiting list and there are not that many parts available, if you get what I mean. I will do my best to get you put on the list. Otherwise you may have to wait for months, maybe until next year. I was away for a while, so I’m just starting up again.”

  “Away where?”

  “Korea.”

  “I always thought one day I must go and visit Korea,” Aunty Lee said chattily. “Old lady like me, too old for K-pop but there’s all that k-drama and kimchi . . .” She shook her head in awe. “I heard that every house there, they have their own kimchi pots. One day I also want to learn to make kimchi. It is like making our achar, right? Except fermented.”

  “There’s so much more to Korea than that. Where I was living—the Wonju campus of Yonsei University, that was way out in the countryside. Yes, I suppose the pop culture was there and the students are probably all steeped in it. But the hills, the forests with pine trees and maple trees—we could be in Europe if not for the paddy fields.”

  “So you came back to Singapore for how long?”

  “As long as it takes, I suppose.” Though Dr. Yong didn’t say that he had no reason to return to Korea, it was clear that was the case.

  “I like Korea.”

  Edmond Yong looked at her suspiciously but all he saw was a harmless, slightly befuddled old lady offering a plate of steamed yam cubes to him.

  “I watch Big Business and Broken Hearts.” Aunty Lee confirmed this impression by naming a popular Korean soap opera.

  Aunty Lee could sense he was about to bolt and stepped in: “I was hoping you could help me if only you were still operating somewhere, but maybe you can recommend someone”—she lowered her voice—“unofficially. Nowadays, with so many rules and regulations, it is so hard to get anything done.”

  Dr. Yong’s whole demeanor changed. Suddenly he was back on familiar ground.

  “I see . . . but you still didn’t tell me where you work.”

  “It’s a private clinic.”

  “But can I go and look around first? I am scared of operations, old lady like me, you can understand.”

  “It’s not allowed,” Dr. Yong said firmly. He sensed that the balance of power had shifted subtly but he wasn’t sure where or how. “It’s because of privacy and hygiene and everything. You wouldn’t understand. But it’s the way it’s done.”

  Aunty Lee looked thoughtful.

  “So are you interested?”

  “Yes. I think . . . put me down for a pair of knees, okay? But remember, I don’t want some old man’s knees. I want to be able to walk up and down steps, no problem.”

  “I promise you. These will be young man’s knees. You will be able to go dancing, trust me!”

  After Aunty Lee had dutifully laughed at his joke (had he but known Aunty Lee’s own two knees were still happy to support her on the dance floor if only she could find someone worth dancing with), she introduced her final piece of bait.

  “So then why Dr. Sung cannot show you how to help him?” Aunty Lee was playing the ignorant insistent granny lady for all she was worth.

  “Because it’s not his hands that are the problem, Mrs. Lee. I don’t know how much you know about Parkinson’s but it is the big thing old people are always most scared of, right? Parkinson’s disease is the result of having too little dopamine—that’s a chemical, a neurotransmitter—in the parts of the brain controlling movement. As a matter of fact there has been some research done suggesting that we can do something to help him. The research showed that transplanting brain tissue from fetuses into the brains of people with Parkinson’s disease could relieve their symptoms drastically because of a specific type of neuron—that’s a brain cell—within the fetal tissue.”

  Edmond did not expect the old woman to follow all this. It was only meant to confuse and impress her enough to trust herself and her money to his knowledge and expertise.

  “Where did they get the fetal tissues from?” Aunty Lee sounded more curious than intimidated.

  “Oh, there are always lots from abortions. Don’t worry—ha ha—we don’t kill any babies.”

  This was not the time, Aunty Lee told herself, to go into a discussion on abortion. Catholic Nina was already slamming plates around on the other side of the room, even though she was supposed to have been eavesdropping silently.

  “The original research was halted, prematurely I believe, because some of the patients developed a different kind of uncontro
llable movements and jerking. But this was a very small percentage. If the patients are willing to take the risk, I think we should go on.”

  “But from where will you get the”—Aunty Lee’s voice dropped to a frightened, conspiratorial whisper—“dead baby parts from?”

  “You can leave that to us,” Dr. Edmond Yong said with genial condescension. “Just let us know what you want done and we will take care of everything. I just want you to look through these papers. Please take note you cannot use your Medisave. You take your time and let me know when you are ready, okay?

  “Of course these are not the actual papers you will be signing, those will be drawn up specially for you, depending on your state of health and the procedures you are signing up for. A lot of women feel since we are doing surgery, might as well do liposuction at the same time.”

  But Aunty Lee, peering confusedly at the papers, did not pick up on this. Edmond Yong didn’t think she would actually read them. Old people, he knew very well, had problems with their eyes and their attention spans. In fact he suspected that this old woman had been dragging out their conversation with questions more because she wanted the attention than because she needed answers. He had done a brief course on the psychology of aging and knew that getting attention was important to old folks; he just didn’t have the time to spend listening to her. But her financial standing seemed sound enough even though she did not look as though it was.

  And he knew that if only he could convince her to go through with the operation, this might be his big break.

  The sum indicated was a large one. But Aunty Lee could see that someone in chronic pain would consider it money well spent.

  “What is happening with all that poisoning business?” Aunty Lee asked, as though it had just crossed her mind. “Are they still investigating? How long do these things usually drag on?”

  Of course Nina had already been dispatched to find out how long such things took. The only answer she had come up with was that it varied with who was involved and how much attention the case received. But Aunty Lee guessed that Edmond Yong enjoyed being consulted as an authority.

  “That depends, of course”—he lowered his voice slightly—“and in this case there are complications . . .”

  “What complications?”

  “The case of your late husband’s suspicious death was brought up, so in this case there was a previous poisoning incident.”

  Aunty Lee looked suitably taken aback. “There was nothing suspicious about my late husband’s death!”

  “That’s because no tests were done, nothing was investigated since your husband was being treated for cancer. But someone clearly remembers a family member, possibly the daughter of the deceased, saying at the funeral wake that it was impossible ML Wong could have died of a heart attack because he never showed any previous signs of heart trouble.”

  Aunty Lee was stunned. She had never been accused—at least not to her knowledge and certainly not by Mathilda—of having anything to do with her beloved ML’s death. As for the improbability of a heart attack, hadn’t Aunty Lee said so herself? Despite ML’s cancer, none of them had expected a sudden heart attack. Indeed the family member who Dr. Yong’s source was quoting was more likely Aunty Lee than Mathilda! Aunty Lee had done her utmost to make sure the wake had all the dignity due to ML’s life and memory, but she had been so distraught that she could barely remember it. “Yes,” she had said in response to many condolences. “Yes, it was fast. But after surviving all the cancer treatment, how could he suddenly die of a heart attack when he had never had heart problems before?” Indeed dear Mathilda had repeatedly and patiently reminded Aunty Lee that ML’s heart had likely been weakened by the cancer and the chemotherapy.

  Aunty Lee started to tell the young doctor this, but stopped when she saw how intently Edmond Yong’s attention was fixed on her, his lips slightly parted in an unconscious smile of anticipation. He suddenly reminded Aunty Lee of herself in the middle of a delicate cooking procedure such as frying kueh pie tee shells or “top hats.” The oil had to be at just the right temperature, the brass mound coated in just enough rice-flour batter of just the right consistency to make the crispy little shells one by one . . .

  Dr. Edmond Yong was coating her in lies and insinuations, Aunty Lee realized, and dipping her in hot oil, expecting to easily crush and crumble her.

  Aunty Lee shook herself. She reminded herself to look confused and anxious. “Oh no,” she said faintly.

  “You see, everybody has complications,” Dr. Yong said smoothly. He was already certain he could make this old woman do whatever he wanted but he went on adding to her fears because he enjoyed it.

  “And on the business side also, since your kitchens here are being investigated, it’s only right that all your products already on sale in supermarkets should be recalled, just in case. And consumers with previously purchased bottles of your sambal or achar should be warned. The public always gets angry when product information is not made available to them, so it’s only right that they are warned there may be something wrong with the Aunty Lee’s Delights line of products.”

  Edmond Yong felt confident and smoothly authoritative. All the marketing and self-help guides he had studied were paying off. He had a good product, knew his target market, and had an offer in hand that she could not refuse.

  “All Sharon’s friends tell her that she should call for a full investigation but she told them that there was no point. After all, no matter what they find out, it would not bring her mother and brother back. I’m sure you will agree that that’s the best course.”

  “Of course,” Aunty Lee said cautiously and curiously. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “We just need you to agree that it was your chicken buah keluak that was responsible for what happened. Of course with all your deepest regrets for the tragedy and all that blah blah blah. But basically, that all this was a careless accident on your part, that you are sorry, and it won’t happen again, and that’s that. Case closed. We can all move on and stop wasting so much time.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me?” Aunty Lee asked with some interest.

  “No, of course not. I’m only saying that since nothing can be done for them now, the best thing we can do is contain the damage, right?”

  “So you want me to say that it was my fault that two people died?”

  “I’m just saying that it will all blow over faster.”

  “But then the real killer—if there is one—will get away? Of course that’s assuming that they didn’t kill themselves. But if they did, the police investigation will find that out.”

  “The police.” Edmond Yong snorted. “They will find out what they’re paid to find.”

  “You cannot talk about Singapore police like that,” Nina said.

  Edmond was startled. He had not noticed her come into the room, but she was standing by a door he had not seen before, between two of the display cases. “In the Philippines everybody knows the police are always trying to do a lot of reforms, Aquino is trying to make them do reforms, but they are still corrupt. Here you try to offer the police a bribe to escape fine, you get arrested—double fine!”

  Aunty Lee noted that however Nina treated Salim to his face, she defended his back fiercely. That was a good sign if only Aunty Lee could find some way of letting Salim know. But cheering Salim up was not a top priority for Aunty Lee right then and she filed the thought away for future reference.

  “What is it, Nina?” was all she said.

  “Madam, the gardener is asking if you want him to cut down the rambutan tree branch over your porch, otherwise the next time strong wind comes, sure kenah.”

  “No. Those branches got a lot of fruit just turning yellow. Those can be very sweet.”

  “Maybe dangerous, madam.”

  “Going to turn yellow then red then ripe already. Tell him don’t worry.”

  “I will tell him to keep an eye on it,” Nina said darkly as she exited.

 
; Edmond Yong ignored the interruption, forgetting Nina as soon as the door closed behind her.

  “You don’t want your husband’s two children asking questions about his death, do you?”

  Hearing her late husband referred to still gave Aunty Lee a slight jolt. Especially here in what had been his favorite room.

  “Nobody asked questions.”

  “And you don’t want them to,” Edmond Yong said. “Because you know how things work. If you say anything to anybody about this knee surgery, people will hear the rumors about your husband’s death. Everybody will know this is the second time somebody died after eating your cooking. Rumors are enough to destroy you. It will be good-bye to your business, to you, everything. For your own sake you don’t want that to happen, right?”

  Was Edmond Yong really trying to threaten her into silence? Aunty Lee was reminded of a gang of Chinese con artists that conned old women into handing over their jewelry to be cleansed of bad luck. If they told anyone then bad luck would be doubled on their families. Apparently this scam had worked successfully in the Chinatowns of several American cities where the aging Chinese women were isolated from their new countrymen and their Americanized children. Unfortunately for the scammers, in Singapore they had run into Aunty Lee buying dong gu mushrooms in Chinatown. It was one of the cases that had made Inspector Salim look good.

  Now Edmond Yong was trying to intimidate her the same way, and Aunty Lee felt a thrill of realization. “Of course!”

  “Mrs. Lee, do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Apparently she had not looked intimidated enough. Aunty Lee did her best to look flustered and confused.

  “You want me to say my food poisoned those people. So what do you want me to do after that, close down?”

  “Oh no, of course not! Aunty Lee’s Delights is a household name! All I am saying is admit one mistake, the family says no hard feelings. Take a break until all of this blows over. While you’re resting, let me fix your knees for you. When you get back to work you will feel so much better. No more pain when you are standing all day in your kitchen. You may feel so good that maybe you’ll even take up aerobics or jogging—ha ha!”