“I understand. It’s best you see her alone.”
He looked puzzled. “How did you know I was going to say that?”
“Well, it has been a long time since you’ve seen Ting-Ting. Your first meeting should just be the two of you, not with a foreign stepmother. She’ll have plenty of chances to meet me later.”
“Thank you. I’ll just go for the weekend and stay in a guesthouse for one night.”
“I have friends whose parents divorced at an early age. Just don’t be surprised if Ting-Ting is a little shy with you. When kids don’t see their dads for a long time, they don’t always warm up right away. That’s normal.”
“It’ll be no problem. Ting-Ting is a great kid. We were always very close when she was a baby.”
“But she’s bigger now. It’s just something to keep in mind.”
• • •
On the morning of his departure, Cai and I headed down the mountain to take the train into Kowloon. The boats to Zhūhâi and Macau left from a ferry pier in Tsim Sha Tsui that was oddly named China Hong Kong City and also served as a shopping mall.
“Have a great time,” I told Cai as we approached the gate. The boat terminal resembled an airport’s, with a comfortable waiting room and rows of neatly arranged chairs. A neon sign announced the next departure time to Zhūhâi.
“Try to take a few pictures. I’d love to see what Ting-Ting looks like.”
“Thank you.” He kissed me tenderly on the lips. “Have a good weekend. I’ll see you tomorrow back in our room.”
I wanted to meet him at China Hong Kong City the following evening, but he insisted I not waste my afternoon. Cai didn’t call all weekend, but I didn’t expect him to. We didn’t own cell phones, and calling Hong Kong from China cost more than calling the United States from Hong Kong with a discounted calling plan. I spent the weekend catching up on my classwork. When Cai turned our doorknob on Sunday evening, I jumped from my desk, where I was leafing through notes for my state and civil society class.
“How’d it go?” I said, beaming.
Cai embraced me and hung his backpack around the back of his desk chair. “It was great. Ting-Ting did an excellent job in her performance.”
“That’s so good to hear. Was she sad when you left?”
“I think so. I told her I’d come again soon.”
“Wonderful. It sounds like everything went really well.” We both sat in our desk chairs while Cai fished out a little photo album from his backpack.
“I took these photos and had them developed there. I gave Ting-Ting a copy.” He handed me the little paper album, the size of a four-by-six photo. The first photo showed a smiling girl, her hair parted down the middle with little wisps hanging over her forehead. She was missing one top front tooth. Her eyes were narrow like Baba’s and her face was round like Mama’s. I didn’t see Cai in her at all. Maybe she looked like Wei Ling.
But then I turned the page and there stood a petite woman wearing a thin, dark pencil skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse. Her wide doe eyes appeared large on her oval face. I thought Wei Ling looked beautiful, and from what I knew about Chinese standards of beauty—with its penchant for round eyes—she was considered stunning in China, too.
“Ting-Ting’s not as cute as before,” Cai said matter-of-factly. “But she was really well-behaved.”
“She’s cute in this photo.” I turned the pages of the album, viewing a heavily made-up Ting-Ting in her dance costume: a robin’s-egg blue blouse and light pink skirt. In another photo Ting-Ting posed with Wei Ling, both holding up their pointer and middle fingers to form the victory sign.
I wanted to ask Cai so many questions. Did he talk much to Wei Ling? Was their interaction cordial? Did people assume they were a happy family out for a weekend stroll? But I didn’t want to appear jealous or insecure, so I simply asked if Wei Ling had been nice to him.
“Yeah. She said she’s never found another guy as kind as me.”
“Really? What did you say?”
“Nothing. What could I say?” He stood up and took my hands in his, gently pulling me into his embrace. “You’re my wife. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Thank you.” I shouldn’t have felt insecure. Cai had always made it clear that he didn’t regret his divorce from Wei Ling. Still, I couldn’t help feeling competitive with his ex-wife. I didn’t want to give Cai the trouble that she had during their marriage, arguing at every opportunity and behaving as an individual who was only responsible for herself, not as a partner in a marriage. Yes, I aimed to be the opposite of Wei Ling, to be the type of wife Cai described back in our dorm room the night we got engaged: kind, warm, and soft.
Chapter 17
America, My Exotic Home
The flat roads stretched for miles beyond the lightly traveled highway. Gray skies blurred the rising skyscrapers ahead as we drove away from the airport. From inside the car, it looked as if we could be near any big city in China, but Cai and I had just landed in Chicago for winter vacation.
“There, can you see it?” My father pointed to the windshield. “That’s the Sears Tower, the tallest building in the world.”
Cai nodded and stared off in the distance. Although I’d enjoyed every minute of my year and a half in Hong Kong—minus those three months in China the summer we married—I now longed to introduce Cai to my favorite Chicago attractions: the architecture, the museums, and the wealth of ethnic restaurants. My mother drove while my father continued to point out other landmarks as we approached downtown—the Hancock Building, the Standard Oil Building—proud of Chicago and eager to show it to his new son-in-law.
Once home, my parents ushered us out of the blustery cold and into the comfortable new house they’d bought a year earlier in a newly developed neighborhood just south of the financial district. We climbed the carpeted stairs to the guest room at the front of the two-story wooden house.
“This room only has twin beds,” my mom said, “but I pushed them together for you. You’re probably tired. If you fall asleep, I’ll wake you up for dinner. It’s best to get used to the new time zone as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” Cai said.
My mom left the room in an awkward silence. I’d never taken a guy home to my parents because there’d never been anyone before.
“Hěn shūfú.” It’s so comfortable. Cai leaned back into the two pillows on his side of the bed. “America is very nice. I like how everyone drives cars.”
That was a relief to hear. I recalled how he had said back in Hong Kong that he didn’t want to live in the United States, so I wasn’t sure what Cai would think of the excesses here. After all, our parents’ homes couldn’t be more dissimilar. Mama and Baba shared one bathroom with cement floors and a squatter toilet, while my parents enjoyed four bathrooms, three of them with a shower or tub.
His parents wore plastic slippers over their cold synthetic tile; mine glided in socks or bare feet over hardwood floors or wall-to-wall carpeting. His parents opened their windows in the winter because the outside air felt warmer than the frigid indoor air, but my parents enjoyed the comforts of central heat. I took Cai’s interest in cars as a positive sign. Maybe he’d adjust to the United States quicker than I’d expected.
The next morning, I woke to Cai rifling through our suitcase.
“Are you all right?” I stirred, half awake.
“Yes. I’m going to get dressed now.”
“It’s so early.” I couldn’t see the clock without my glasses, but the street outside sounded calm and quiet. It couldn’t be later than seven. Drowsy with jet lag, I wasn’t ready to get up. “Don’t you want to go back to bed?”
“I can’t. It’s so hot I couldn’t sleep all night.”
I hadn’t noticed. After taking a melatonin, I passed out immediately and only woke for several minutes around three in the morning. I had assum
ed Cai was sleeping then.
“We can close the vent.” Putting on my glasses, I climbed onto one of the firm mattresses and reached up to the ceiling. As I closed the vent over his side of the bed, I worried that if he was so bothered by central heat, other things I took for granted—and enjoyed—might cause him similar discomfort. I had just assumed Cai would see the United States through my eyes. But now I realized that way of thinking was both naïve and mistaken.
Of course he would view America through his own eyes, just as I saw China through mine, not his. And as much as I gushed about everything in Hong Kong, after two years he had never warmed up to that city. Even though I knew it was probably futile, I was determined to only show him the positive sides of America so he wouldn’t grow disillusioned and not want to return.
• • •
For New Year’s Eve, my parents brought us to a party down the street. I loved the diversity of their new development and how friendly they were with their neighbors. An African American man and his Caucasian wife lived next door, and on the other side were a Filipina woman and her Caucasian husband. There were also Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, and Hindu neighbors. The party was held at the home of Steve and Tim, a twentysomething gay couple.
As we entered the din of their new townhouse, I smelled the delicate aroma of fresh caramel. Just beyond the kitchen in a sunken den, an elaborate dessert table greeted us with a tree of homemade profiteroles glistening with cascades of honey in the place of honor in the center. Also on the table were plates of spice cake, mini cheesecakes, and an assortment of holiday cookies. A young man entered the den carrying a tray covered with ramekins of flan draped with fresh caramel. It was dessert heaven. Steve and Tim invited guests to arrive after nine, so we’d all eaten dinner and were now indulging in these homemade delicacies.
“This is very good,” Cai said between chews. His plate held a couple of conjoined profiteroles, a mini cheesecake, and a flan. Although his family didn’t eat dessert, Cai enjoyed sweets, from Asian pears to the chewy Fig Newton–like pineapple cookies we often bought in Hong Kong.
“They must have spent hours baking.” I licked the sticky tips of my forefinger and thumb, hoping no one noticed.
Cai scanned the crowds standing around the dessert table. His face suddenly took on a look of horror, as if he’d spotted someone he didn’t want to see. “Are most of these people guy?” Cai asked.
“Guy?”
“You know, tóngxìngliàn. Guy.” Cai hovered close to me.
“Oh, gay. It’s gay, not guy. And, yes, a lot are, but some aren’t.”
“Are Steve and Tim gay?” He sounded panicked now.
I looked off to the side for a moment, wondering if we were about to embark on a conversation like the one about hotel towels and AIDS during our Hong Kong honeymoon. I took a deep breath while reminding myself that what seemed normal and obvious to me could still appear unfathomable to Cai. “Yes.”
“They are?”
Nodding, I wanted to assuage Cai’s fears. My father liked to tell the story of when his chemistry students from Beijing had vehemently stated there were no gay people in China. My dad then asked if it was against the law to be gay. Yes, they answered. There you go, my dad replied. That’s why no one was coming out there.
I assumed Cai had little exposure to gay men or women. Yet this was the kind of party that I missed when we were in Hong Kong. Now that I was married, I spent my evenings with Cai in our dorm room or when we ventured out two train stops to the Sha Tin mall to eat and rent movies. I was enjoying myself at Steve and Tim’s, and didn’t want to press Cai about his fear. But I did lead him over to my parents so he could talk to familiar company.
By the time we left Chicago for New York, I could tell that Cai wasn’t as thrilled about the United States as he had been on our first night when he basked in the comfort of down pillows and central heat. He had stopped commenting on the newness of the United States: the cars, the comfortable homes, and the enormous restaurant servings.
In fact, he spoke very little when we visited with relatives and former neighbors, and later when we walked down North Michigan Avenue in the crowds of last-minute holiday shoppers. I knew we weren’t going to move to Chicago, but I wanted him to like it enough to want to come back to visit with me when we could afford it. Maybe he would take better to New York, our next stop.
• • •
Greenwich Village during the wintertime is especially quaint. Narrow streets, lights glowing from brownstones, people braving the winter elements to walk their dogs at all hours of the night. After Cai and I left my parents in Chicago, we flew to New York for a week before returning to Hong Kong. I wanted to show Cai another part of the United States, but our options were limited because we didn’t have much cash.
New York worked out since my shirttail relatives—cousins of an uncle by marriage—allowed us to stay in their unoccupied basement apartment in Greenwich Village. They lived in an upstairs unit. Coincidentally, their building sat across the street from where Jin, my crush from Washington, lived when he moved to New York.
I thought New York would be fun for Cai to visit because it was full of people and had a large Chinese population. On our first afternoon in Manhattan, we walked over to Chinatown for a late lunch. Cai picked up a free Chinese newspaper from a small café on Mott Street where we warmed up with bowls of rice noodles and soup. After lunch, we returned to the apartment to rest before dinner. Lounging on the bed as dusk shone in through a few small, upper windows, Cai opened the paper.
“There are so many jobs here,” he said in amazement. “Maybe we should move to New York.”
“Really?” This was the first time he’d spoken about not returning to China, and while I was excited to hear it, I thought it rash to suggest moving here after a quick glance at a free classified section. We had only arrived that morning. And I knew it wouldn’t be easy for Cai to find a job in his field in the United States without patience and hard work. “Are these related to music?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. I can do anything in America.”
“Yes, you can find any old job, although it would be a shame if you didn’t do something with music. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are now.”
“It’s okay. As long as we have each other, everything will be all right.”
I admired Cai’s idealism, but knew he would feel resentful later on if he gave up his career—and any chances of working with music. But he continued to peruse the New York classifieds as if they were winning lottery-ticket numbers.
“Here’s one. Gas station for sale. It’s only $85,000.” He spoke as though it was a no-brainer for making big bucks. “Where’s Queens?”
How in the world would Cai and I run a gas station? “Gas stations are usually dangerous. People hold them up at gunpoint, and we’d have no time off to spend with our kids. I don’t even know where Queens is.”
“We could get a gun. Doesn’t everyone in America have a gun?”
My heart raced. “No way. We’re not going to get a gun or use one or work someplace where we’d be an easy target for an armed robbery. Never.”
Cai sighed, hurling the paper to the floor.
I needed to calm down before we both became more discouraged. He just didn’t understand the way people found jobs in the United States, I reminded myself. It wasn’t like China where the government assigned professions and places of employment.
“Don’t be discouraged. You haven’t started looking for a job in your field. If you could grow up in Hidden River and get a PhD, you can find a great job here. It’ll just take some time.”
He picked up the paper again. “Here’s something. Newspaper journalist. World Journal.”
“That sounds better.” My voice perked up. “You could even write about music.”
“Where’s the Bronx?”
“It’s another borough,
like Manhattan or Queens. There’s a zoo and the Yankees baseball team plays there. That’s all I know. Is that where the newspaper office is?”
“No, another gas station. This one is only $80,000.” He sounded hopeful again about making lots of money.
I closed my eyes and kept silent. Cai seemed so volatile. I was afraid to say anything else that would come across as pessimistic or discouraging. He had to feel overwhelmed by all the choices available to him now, but I couldn’t let him make such a huge decision after seeing the city for half an afternoon.
Cai scowled. “It’s so dirty here.”
“It is an old city. There aren’t as many people as in Shanghai or Beijing, but—”
“No, not New York. This apartment. How can people live this way?”
I scanned the room. Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary, especially compared to the dank, roach-infested apartment Cai still kept at the Wuhan Conservatory of Music, where we had stayed on previous trips to China. I could still picture the black soot and gray cobwebs that overwhelmed his place.
“Look at this.” He slapped the double bed. “These aren’t covers, they’re sleeping bags. Newspapers and so much stuff everywhere. I don’t like a lot of stuff.”
I peered around the apartment and for the first time noticed books scattered on various end tables and in piles on the floor. My parents weren’t neat freaks, so the clutter in this apartment didn’t faze me. When I thought about it, I realized it was true that Cai didn’t own many things. His apartment in Wuhan was bare but for basic furniture like a bed, a table, a couple of chairs, and rudimentary pots and pans.
His parents also didn’t own many material goods. I remembered seeing a few curios in a glass cabinet along with that plaster bust of Mao. But to me, this basement apartment was cozy and charming, occupying a prime piece of real estate on a quiet tree-lined street near New York University. I figured Cai probably preferred the comforts of my parents’ new construction, not vintage charm.
• • •
Good Chinese Wife Page 12