by Cole Reid
“What kind of filling would you like?” asked Xiaofeng.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Li, “You choose.”
“You used to like pork with cabbage,” said Xiaofeng.
“I don’t remember,” said Mr. Li.
“It was all you ever asked for,” said Xiaofeng.
“I’ve got other things in my head, now,” said Mr. Li.
“Well,” said Xiaofeng, “We’ll jog your memory.”
“Ok,” said Mr. Li. The Corolla headed toward West Los Angeles to a grocery store across the street from a tree-filled neighborhood. Mr. Li acquiesced to dumplings with pork and cabbage. That’s what Xiaofeng bought. The drive home was quick but strained. It was as if she was trying to force twenty-two years down the drain. She was back to taking care of him. She wouldn’t let him carry the canvas bag. Its contents had to be readied by her so she carried it. The neighborhood was quiet except for the cars along Sepulveda Boulevard. Lawns were cut. Trees were trimmed. Her house was a simple one-story, stucco like the rest. The roof was red-tiled and the window on the front was arched not squared. The driveway was narrow but she navigated it perfectly. The garage was to the back but she didn’t use it to store her car. It stored her memorabilia. Everything Mr. Li left behind was somewhere in the garage. She opted to use the carport on the side of the house to shield her Corolla from the sun. She let Mr. Li out before backing in under the carport. They entered the house through the front door. Wood tiles greeted Mr. Li’s shoes as he made his way inside. The house was neat with two bedrooms. The artwork wasn’t Chinese. She favored Ansel Adams. Black and white still photographs added a sense of stillness to the room. The landscapes made him forget Southern California was outside. The living room was open and had a quiet voice. A yellow leather sofa provided a contrast of color livening up a black piano with its reflection. The house was Wendy’s not Xiaofeng’s. It spoke of a California resident. Not a woman raised half the world away.
Xiaofeng set the piano, a player. She let the music play while she made the dumplings. She refused his help. Her mother always made dinner alone, so did her grandmother. She saw it as her matriarchal duty. But she was slow at it. She didn’t have the frequent practice like the other women in the Li family. She had to find the right tools, thinking of what she could use. She had the necessary cookware but she was unfamiliar with her own kitchen. She cooked but it was usually quick. Now she had to mix and roll and chop and so much else. Mr. Li sat on the yellow sofa and worked the room. He looked for anything that gave a clue. The only story told by the room was that Xiaofeng had tried vehemently to be someone else. Mr. Li was certain she didn’t throw away all of the things she had from China. She just didn’t display them. He was also certain she didn’t play the piano. She hid her humble origins. Like she hid her disdain for raising him. She didn’t hide it from everyone, only from him. He looked at his hand studying it. He remarked to himself once again how well the polymer spray worked. He couldn’t tell the skin wasn’t his. He liked the idea of returning the favor, a lie for a lie.
“What have you been doing in Hong Kong?” asked Xiaofeng.
“I graduated from polytechnic school and now I work for the harbor authority,” said Mr. Li.
“Doing what?” asked Xiaofeng.
“Code enforcement,” said Mr. Li, “I make sure the shippers and their ships are following the book.” The lies didn’t need effort.
“Do you enjoy that?” asked Xiaofeng.
“I enjoy the boats,” said Mr. Li, “I get to go out on them a lot. They’re great constructions. Mankind’s obsessed with water. That’s why we build boats.” Mr. Li had fashioned his lie around a man he admired—Uncle Woo—the sailor and smuggler. He knew it was the source of his story. Xiaofeng didn’t.
“And what about you,” said Mr. Li, “You’ve always been smart and beautiful, why didn’t you ever marry?” The question hit Xiaofeng in a different place. It was usually family that asked those kinds of questions.
“I grew up watching I guess,” said Xiaofeng from inside the kitchen.
“What does that mean?” asked Mr. Li.
“I saw mama—our mother—and she was always alone,” said Xiaofeng, “I met my father but I don’t remember him. I was just too young back then. For so many years, I believed that was the way for a woman, manless. When we moved back to live with Grandma and Grandpa, I remembered thinking how disenfranchised it all seemed. He didn’t seem to understand her, she seemed to have had enough of him but they were together. It just lasted, since years before me. And I thought I didn’t want to just last. I wanted to live. Mama was living. She was free. The only thing, her only hindrance was me. But we fit. Even the two of us could fit on the back of her scooter. It was too small for a man but we fit. That was our world. My world has always been small like hers. I could have a man of my own or a world of my own but not both. My choice is between being like our mother or like our grandmother. For me that’s an easy one.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Li, “I understand sacrifice, trade off.”
“My little brother,” said Xiaofeng. She didn’t say anything else. It was two hours of theater but the dumplings came ready. Mr. Li relocated from the yellow sofa to the high dining table. The table was a ways from the sofa. The most entertaining Xiaofeng did was cocktails and coffee. Mr. Li was special. He got special service.
• • •
Service was included and dinner was served. A large porcelain bowl was left to steam in the middle of the table with edible extras. The dumplings were piled high, using up the bowl and upwards. The food formed a mount, lonesome in the middle of the table. The tea was unready. The water had boiled. The leaves were washed and soaked, but they hadn’t soaked enough. When it was ready, Xiaofeng poured the hot water over the leaves and brought tea to the table. It had belonged to her grandmother. Years before they had their tea from the same pot in the same cups served on the same tray. Mr. Li didn’t remember. It was as new to him as Xiaofeng was. But he went through the motions. She served his tea, bringing it to him as if he were that little boy. Reminiscent but not remiss, she served enough dumplings for both of them, too much though if he were still that little boy.
“Be the judge,” said Xiaofeng. Mr. Li gave himself enough dumplings to serve as judge. He smacked his approval before he mouthed it.
“What’s the verdict?” asked Xiaofeng, “Better than grandma?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Li, “Because I don’t really remember grandma.”
The statement was matter of fact. But the irony wasn’t lost on a professor who taught controversies in global economics. The most ironic part was Xiaofeng had always held her mother’s dumplings above her grandmother’s. Mr. Li was an inapt judge. He had never tried her mother’s dumplings. Ironic still, it was his mother’s cooking he hadn’t tried. Xiaofeng thought the sentiment made the difference. She was much closer to her mother than she had been with her grandmother. She naturally preferred dumplings cooked by her mother. But they weren’t better. They were dumplings. They could only be so good. Mr. Li would give her dumplings a seal of approval. He had no choice. There was no competition. The real challenge was in the conversation.
“You asked me,” said Xiaofeng, “Now I’m asking you.”
“What?” asked Mr. Li.
“Are you married?” said Xiaofeng. No was the short answer.
“Did you come close?” she asked.
“I suppose no,” said Mr. Li.
“Why do you say it like that?” asked Xiaofeng.
“Some things you don’t know,” said Mr. Li, “Like dying, how do you know if you’ve come close, if you’re still living? Maybe I’ve been close or maybe it just looked that way. How would I know? I didn’t die yet.”
“That’s a bit more than I was asking,” said Xiaofeng.
“Then what?” asked Mr. Li.
“Did you ever find someone?” said Xiaofeng, “Did you ever ask someone?”
“No,” said Mr. Li, “I never aske
d anyone.”
“Did you ever find someone to care about?” asked Xiaofeng, “Mom had me to care for and I had you. Did you ever care for someone?” Mr. Li’s eyes retreated. He thought about the question. The question was redundant. He answered with the same obviousness.
“Yes,” said Mr. Li.
“Who was she?” Xiaofeng asked. He paused. The answer didn’t come out so mechanically. It didn’t come out at all. His eyes rolled from the table to the wall behind Xiaofeng. Then they came front and center. He stared at her. She noticed. It was more destabilizing than him surprising her in the hallway. That was a shock. But his eyes could do different things. His eyes charged forward. She was stunned. She wanted to look away but couldn’t.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Li, “She’s not around anymore.”
“What happened?” asked Xiaofeng, her voice wavering.
“Gone,” said Mr. Li.
“I’m sorry,” was all she could muster. He had said all he was meant to. The rest of the meal continued in relative silence. When the dumplings were gone, the tea was next. All plates and cups came up empty. Mr. Li gathered his plate and teacup and took it to the kitchen. Xiaofeng wouldn’t let him clean after himself. She stuck with tradition. Like her mother and her grandmother she did the cooking and the cleaning. It was meant to make her guest feel at home. It didn’t work. Mr. Li felt like he was watching a show for his benefit. He had been in fights but never felt so uncomfortable. He wanted to leave. He was obliged to stay. He told Xiaofeng he had an important meeting in the morning, his reason for coming to Los Angeles. She believed him. But she was his big sister. And she had a spare room. She said stay, so he did. He took his mind off the feeling of staying with a woman who was and wasn’t his sister. He ran back to his imbedded training. He focused on the project at hand, to stay one night in the house. That was it, to sleep until he was awake.
Chapter Eighteen Awake
His shoulder, it was the only thing on his mind. He knew he wasn’t asleep anymore. It meant the pain was real. He slept in a twisted fashion, putting so much weight on his right shoulder. He should have adjusted to sleep more comfortably but subconsciously he wanted to remain uncomfortable. Pretending had lost its merit. The shoulder was all he felt but he could hear more. He heard the early morning, the silence before the morning hustle. And he could hear himself. His breath. The inhale. And his heart pumping blood to his sore shoulder. His shoulder would be ok. He sat up feeling the prickle of dormant muscles activating. He looked around the room. It was more familiar than it should have been. There were no sheets, just his body and the piano. He took in his surroundings and the black and white landscapes that littered the walls. He sat on the yellow sofa, back in the living room. He had gone to sleep in the guest room, just down the hall from his sister. He had retrenched or retreated to the yellow sofa in the middle of the night. With no pillow or blanket he fell asleep on the sofa without enough space for his shoulders. The direction of his body was its own language. It looked uncomfortable but it was more comfortable than sleeping in the bedroom, near his sister. He shrunk his body and wrapped his arms around his knees. He marooned himself on the sofa, looking for a rescue. He didn’t want the sofa but it was comfortable. There weren’t many options. The front door was there and he could walk through it but it wasn’t his door. It was hers. The door wasn’t keeping him; she was. He sat still looking at black and white landscapes hanging on the walls. He surveyed the photograph of the rock cliff. The photograph was taken at an up angle. The rock was battling the sky. At first he felt the impulse. He wanted to escape into the photo—make the climb. But he realized it wasn’t the escape that was looming, it was the settling of accounts. He surveyed the room again but this time he included himself, his skin. He had come to see his sister but didn’t let her see him. He hid behind his polymer skin. And told her a story that wasn’t his own. Like most lies, it was turning toxic. He had been wearing the polymer skin for almost twenty-four hours. The compound would begin to poison his skin. His silver cans were at the warehouse in Van Nuys. It was a long ride away.
He got off the sofa and walked through the living room to the master bedroom. He knocked on the door with the steady knock of a man on the look out. He was hurried not by worry of the spray turning toxic but by fear of revealing himself. He would have to take the spray off soon. There were no ways to keep the polymer from breaking down but there were other ways for him to take the paint off—acid. If he stayed it wouldn’t be worth it. He would have to remove the skin in front of her. It was unacceptable. His reason for coming had come back to him. He wanted to see her again. To show her he didn’t need her after all. She left him. They both accepted that. But only he knew the consequences. He wanted to underscore them, to tell her to relax and the consequences had been minimal, a lie. If she saw the tattoo, the lie would come off with the skin. That part of the story wasn’t her business. He went to Hong Kong for her. He said so. But Hong Kong didn’t go anywhere; he could leave the truth there. He joined Caprice to protect her. He didn’t need her. She needed him. But she didn’t need to know. He wanted her to live in her books and her classrooms. The world was easy to understand with no one to tell you flat out. Her students could gargle and regurgitate her lectures. Like her lectures, he wanted her to think she understood him. He explained himself like an outline, the boy she knew and the man he was. It all came together neatly, easy to understand.
• • •
The door didn’t open. He had to knock again. It opened. He didn’t have time for the hospitality his sister had shown.
“I have to go,” said Mr. Li, “I have an appointment.”
“Do you have time for breakfast?” asked Xiaofeng. Mr. Li shook his head.
“Ok,” said Xiaofeng, “Let me put something on.”
“What you have on is fine,” said Mr. Li.
“Ok,” said Xiaofeng, “Let me get my keys.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Li. Mr. Li went back to his safe sofa. He was content with the exchange. He had diverging interest with her but he wasn’t impolite. There was no aggression. He was straightforward and she understood. They weren’t as far apart as he wanted to believe. She came out wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants and foam green flip-flops. Mr. Li heard her come out of her bedroom but felt the sound of her in the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open. The sound didn’t last long. She came into the living room and found him on the sofa. She handed him a granola bar.
“I like mine cold so I put them in the fridge,” said Xiaofeng, “They’re good for energy in the morning.” Thank you was all Mr. Li could do.
• • •
The hotel where Mr. Li said he was staying was in Van Nuys. It was six blocks away from the warehouse. The Corolla pulled up to the independent-owned hotel at fifteen minutes passed nine o’clock in the morning. She dropped him off with one question. When will I see you again? He pegged the evening. He said he would call her. They didn’t have each other’s numbers. They made the exchange. Mr. Li got out of the car and went into the hotel. He waved goodbye then he walked. He walked passed the service desk as if he knew where his room was. He walked to the open area and sat on a love seat. He used his phone again. He didn’t call his sister. He called Liu Ping.
• • •
The Escort pulled up to the hotel. Instead of parking, Liu Ping hovered in front of the door with the engine running. Wang Xi went into the hotel with casual clothes and a plastic grocery sack. He walked passed the front desk, around the corner and down the hall. The men’s room was passed the water fountains on the left side of the hall. Wang Xi called out for Gui. He was in the last stall. Wang Xi took the plastic bag and handed it to Mr. Li under the stall door. Mr. Li had his shirt and jacket hung on a hook. He grabbed the silver-topped can and sprayed his already itching skin. He used hot hands to quickly dust off the flakes of leftover skin. Not everything fell in the toilet bowl but he made an effort. He flushed the toilet and used the new water to take off what he couldn�
�t with dry rubbing. When he was finished, he wiped himself off with toilet paper and waited for his skin to dry. Wang Xi waited in the stall next door. When his skin was ready, Mr. Li used the white-topped can to cover the tattoo up again. He gave it a minute to seal before putting his shirt back on. His twenty-four hour clock was reset. He stepped out of the stall and slapped the door of the stall next to him. A patient Wang Xi came out of the stall and followed Mr. Li out of the hotel. They found Liu Ping parked in a hazardless spot near the front entrance of the hotel. Mr. Li hopped in the Escort on the passenger side. Wang Xi’s place was in the back.
The drive back to the warehouse was seven minutes, lights and stops included. When Mr. Li got back to the warehouse, he was greeted by a curious three. He had been gone for the day. They waited with no word. But they said nothing. Instead, they organized. Mr. Li came back and took control of his four-walled space. He ordered them to replace their MP5s to the boxes where they were found. The boxes were stacked in an orderly fashion. The firing range was disassembled. The warehouse made a comeback. It looked less like a planning stage and more like the empty space to be rented out. Mr. Li did the cooking again. Like before he told his story while he cooked for the others. They didn’t ask but he delivered. He told them he had gone to see his sister. His point was clear. In the last twenty-two years, he had seen more of them than her. In reality, he hadn’t really seen them. It had been off and on. But he hadn’t seen his sister at all. That was why he went. The visit was a shock to them because they didn’t know he had a sister. He had never mentioned her. Internally, he didn’t know he had a sister as well. It was part of his reason for looking her up. The interaction was mature, more personal than he had been before.