Hungry Hearts

by Elsie Chapman

  The kid showed his palms. “I don’t make the rules,” he laughed.

  I placed another dumpling onto the flat spoon, then leaned down and bit off the top peak. Steam billowed out, along with a little bit of broth. I followed the steam as it rose and disappeared into the air, the way my body eventually would, the way the planet would, time itself. I closed my eyes as my heart rate started climbing, then took a deep breath. Not now, I thought. I urged myself to stay just in the restaurant, stay in the food, stay in the moment.

  “Here you go, man.” The waiter reappeared, this time holding the not-soup. “Damn, boy, feeling hungry?”

  I peered at the bowl, which was piled high with shrimp and vegetables, little cubes of what looked like meat or fish. The broth was a beautiful golden color, with little circles of orange oil floating on the surface, near the edge of the bowl. My heart rate slowed, oblivion averted. “More chances at wishes. But also, this looks damn good.”

  I realized I was still holding the spoon with the dumpling, the steam not wafting out like a volcano anymore. So I closed my eyes again and readied myself for another bite.

  This time the heat took a step back and allowed everything else to come forward. The savory richness of pork, a bite of ginger and scallions, the broth. Oh, man, the broth. I hadn’t ever tasted anything quite like this before. I chewed the dumpling, which was starchy but also managed to melt away, not letting its texture dominate. For a moment, I wanted to reach for something beyond the flavor, but failed. Would I recognize the taste of magic, if magic even had a taste? Then I let the flavor itself take over.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Good?”

  “So good.” I prepared another dumpling, forgetting about wishes for the time being. On this one I drizzled a tiny amount of chili oil into the hole I bit off the top. It was hard to wait for the heat to dissipate, hard to resist the gratification of another bite.

  By the time the fifth dumpling had disappeared, I was starting to sweat from the heat and the spice. I took a long gulp of water and turned my attention to the not-soup. I dipped the chopsticks into the bowl, grabbed the first morsel I could hang on to—something that could have been cabbage—and let the oil drip down like I’d seen the other customers do. A satisfying crunch, followed by the velvety, rich feel of whatever this heavenly liquid was.

  It was the spiciest thing I’d ever eaten, and I had to keep asking the waiter to refill my water, causing my new friend to crack jokes.

  “You know you don’t have to eat that whole thing, right? You are bright red right now.”

  I went to respond but ended up coughing instead. Ice cubes in water had never felt better. I just shrugged and dug deeper into the bowl. A piece of shrimp, something unidentifiable that was fatty and chewy, a texture I’d never cared for but could now appreciate, maybe because of the potential fear-erasing promise within it. I took a bite, intensely attuned to the motion of chewing, wanting to sense anything that was different about this meal from all the others. I phrased the wish in as many ways as I could, in as many languages as I could remember. Each time I wished, it was with added desperation, a plea to the food, to the chef, to whatever magic existed in the world. And when the desperation threatened to overwhelm me, I took another bite.

  There had been a few times in my life when I’d honestly devoured a meal. The last time was that day a few summers ago when Miljan and I swam across the bay. We’d been sitting in front of our home, bored out of our minds and sticky with sweat from a heat wave passing through. Even inside we couldn’t get away from the heat without the boredom compounding. Then Miljan pointed at Old Town and asked how long I thought it would take to swim there. Five minutes later we were in our trunks and jumping off the cement into the water. About halfway across the bay, my thighs and arms were already throbbing with pain and fatigue. I looked up from my paddling and saw Miljan a few meters ahead of me, the edge of the water an impossible distance away.

  I thought that if a cramp hit in that moment, pulling me under, Miljan would keep swimming and not look back until he’d reached the shore. I thought about the way the bay had been shaped by glaciers thousands and thousands of years ago, about how little time, in comparison, it would take me to drown. My life itself was such a brief flash in comparison. The thought that I could die in this situation entered my mind, that the universe had granted me a life but could take it back at any moment. I started swimming harder. I imagined sharks in the water, rip tides, though neither of those exist in Kotor and had never been a fear of mine and never would be again.

  Forty-five minutes later we dragged ourselves onto the shore, panting and wishing we’d brought enough money for a taxi back. Miljan lay down on the gravelly rocks, his hands on his forehead, his face turned into a tired sneer, calling us idiots for not staying within our boredom. I panted, wondering why I couldn’t catch my breath, why my thoughts were glued to oblivion.

  We found an overpriced restaurant in Old Town and sat down in our swim trunks on the patio of a plaza, eating mounds of spaghetti in tomato sauce and drinking water in the shade, people-watching and gathering our energy. The air cooled within the high walls of Old Town, and I remembered thinking that it would have been a perfect afternoon, absolutely glowing in beauty, if not for the fact that the swim had put death in my mind. The stain on the day was there and wouldn’t leave.

  The dim-sum meal felt kind of like that perfect afternoon, though this time I’d managed to push thoughts of death away before they could ruin my appetite. I scooted my chair back, tossed my cloth napkin onto the table. The waiter came by and cleared my plates, leaving behind a check in a leather booklet. I usually get out of restaurants as soon as I can, since I like post-meal walks. Now I lingered, though, not wanting to part with the restaurant quite yet. I fumbled with my wallet as if I couldn’t find the bills within it, finished my water. I dipped my thoughts into the realm of death to see if I’d get pulled under.

  I looked over at my neighbor, noticed that his food had been gone for a while now, but he was still around. “My name is Joko,” I said, reaching my hand across the table. “Thanks for helping me figure the food out.”

  “Leo.”

  We shook hands, and again the din of the restaurant stepped in. I wiped my sweaty brow and bit my lip. I looked around the restaurant. Quite the crowd had built up by the hostess stand, some people on their phones, some looking hungrily into the dining room. I waited for a terrifying thought to come but felt the fullness in my stomach and forgot.

  “So,” Leo said. “What’d you wish for?”

  I chuckled as a response, since I still remembered the look on Miljan’s face when I’d told him, the squint in his eyes that made me feel like I was a fool for fearing something so simple and inevitable. I looked out the window. The sunlight coming in had turned a rich gold, and I suddenly longed to be outside in the beauty of Rowbury. I started gathering my things, and Leo stood with me, saying he was heading out too.

  We stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant for a moment, the sun on our faces. I closed my eyes, taking in its warmth. When I opened them again, Leo was still standing there, a smile turning his lips. I remembered that I was on this trip as a cure, that I had left Montenegro behind, and that I could leave the secrecy of my fear behind too.

  “I wished that I could stop thinking about death. Or at least not care about it,” I said.

  Leo’s eyebrows went up for a second, and I wondered if my confession had made things weird. Then he nodded and said, “I guess it’s too early to tell if it worked.”

  I shrugged.“Probably.”

  We lingered in silence another moment, watching people walk by. The food rested heavy and warm in my stomach, and if nothing else, I knew I’d at least eaten well. “For what it’s worth,” Leo said, “I always think about how things aren’t canceled out by the fact that they ended. Life ends with death, but that doesn’t erase all the moments leading up to it.”

  * * *

  Something l
ike hope bubbled within me.

  It could have been my momentary friendship with Leo. Or it could have been the meal, could have just been the fact that the neighborhood looked cool, the ideal stuff of a traveler’s daydreams. This, the dust America tried to keep hidden under the carpet variety. Skin colors, cuisines, cultures, all within the umbrella of that damn flag. The whole world gathered on its land, embraced the history it repeatedly wiped clean, and still America wanted to only sing of its European roots. And yet the dust rose in the air, resisting. It lingered and fought, and I was here as its witness.

  I could smell spices in the air, couldn’t even identify any of them. A sort of magic, that, right? Mysteries the world would continue to hold no matter how long I lived. Even if the dim sum wasn’t wish granting, these snippets of magic would still exist. And I was given a life with which to discover them.

  I decided in the moment that I would eat in this neighborhood every day I was in the city. A full week, but short in the wider scope of my travels. I’d go on to Mexico City, then farther and farther south. Until then, I’d give myself a chance at the magic the Swede and the Internet had talked about. I would look for snippets of magic, whether death came for my thoughts or not.

  Food, everywhere. There were so many spots I could walk into and be served a plethora of dishes I’d only ever seen on TV or the Internet. Food that my brothers would make fun of me for wanting. Food that they would sneer at, call it foreign bullshit.

  Again I thought about how I’d been touched only by luck. Like the meal I’d just had. Like this street here in front of me. Indian food on the corner nearest to me, an Italian restaurant right next door, roasted chicken across the street, people living above, basking in the smell.

  Hell, if there were some magic in the world, why wouldn’t it be here? This place that I’d arrived at only by circumstance, because of the chance encounter with a tourist and an unusually cheap flight, a crazy Internet theory. That meal had been magic, regardless of how long I felt this way. I put my hands in my pockets and slowed my gait, kept an eye out for beautiful things as I made my way down Pepper Street.

  When I passed a bakery, the smell lured me in, and a girl named Lila sold me a cardamom roll, which I picked at while sitting on a bench in Mallow Park, even though I was still stuffed to the point of discomfort. Eating had brought me joy for a moment, and I wanted these moments to keep coming.

  To my right were three food carts, each selling a different cuisine. Straight ahead of me, a halal cart, the girl working it smiling at her customers as she passed them their plates of rice and meat, her body language changing entirely as soon as they walked away. Her shoulders slumped, and she pulled her phone out, put it away again, grabbed a rag and half-heartedly ran it over the counter in front of her. She puffed her cheeks out and exhaled, then caught me watching her and blushed, smiling to herself while avoiding eye contact. I laughed, then looked away so as to not make her uncomfortable.

  A sweet little moment, which I would have to hand back to the universe one day. For now I could set it on my tongue and taste it, forget about anything else. It was possible.

  The Slender One

  BY CAROLINE TUNG RICHMOND

  Mr. Ingersoll died from a heart attack four years ago, but that didn’t stop him from drifting into the Happy Horse Convenience Mart every morning to ask Charlie if the coffee was ready yet.

  “Pour me a cup, won’t you, kiddo? All black. None of that decaf stuff,” said the ghost of Mr. Ingersoll, who looked exactly like the living version of the fifty-six-year-old German American, from the bald head to the spotless slacks that he’d worn to his job of three decades, running the Button & Sew dry cleaners on Pepper Street. “I’ll take one of your mom’s tea eggs, too. Big day ahead, you know.”

  Charlie glanced up from restocking the ramen noodles. His family had run the Happy Horse for eighteen years, and it was his job to take the early shift until he caught the city bus to his private school on the other end of town. The store was quiet at this hour, and Charlie was alone, save for Mr. Ingersoll, who showed up at 6:03 a.m., like he’d done when he was alive. Ghosts were predictable like that, even if it meant ordering a coffee and Chinese tea eggs that they could no longer touch or consume.

  Charlie had been able to talk to ghosts for as long as he could remember. It was a trait passed down on his mom’s side of the family, although it tended to skip a generation, which explained why he and his grandma could see Mr. Ingersoll, but his mother could not. It’s a gift, his parents often reminded him. You’ve been given a great honor.

  But Charlie wasn’t so sure of that. Most of the time, his “gift” made him feel like a weirdo.

  Mr. Ingersoll waved a hand in front of Charlie’s face. “Don’t tell me you forgot! The gates are opening tonight, remember?”

  “I know,” sighed Charlie.

  The gates of heaven and hell, of course.

  He hadn’t forgotten; he just didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

  Every year it was the same. During the seventh lunar month, the underworld’s shadowed entrance would break open and allow spirits to roam the earth. Charlie’s grandma had told him everything when he was a little kid, explaining that there were different types of ghosts. Some were friendly, like Mr. Ingersoll, who remained on earth to watch over loved ones, while others entered the underworld after death, eager for a long rest. But sometimes those ghosts would grow bored. A few even became angry, due to past slights or regret. As soon as the gates reopened, they would rush back to earth, and it was the Mas’ job to placate them with food and entertainment—but not all could be appeased by a juicy pear or Chinese opera.

  “Did your grandma order enough mangos for the festival?” asked Mr. Ingersoll. “Her shaved ice always sells out fast.”

  Charlie glanced at the poster hanging on the door, which announced the store’s annual Hungry Ghost Festival, just four days away. It used to be Charlie’s favorite holiday, from the puppet shows at the community center to the paper lanterns that his mom hung outside and to the food—especially the food. Sautéed pea shoots. Roasted duck. Pineapple cakes that fit into the palm of your hand. Then there was his grandma’s shaved ice with all the toppings—chopped mangos, condensed milk poured on thick, and her famous mung beans in sugary syrup. He could eat a whole bowl of those.

  “You’re sure your grandma can handle everything in her condition?” Mr. Ingersoll went on.

  “I think so,” replied Charlie, although he wasn’t sure at all. A month ago his grandma had gotten clipped by a Honda Civic—Waipo had cursed out the driver even as the paramedics treated her—and she had been laid up in bed with a broken foot ever since. Despite doctors’ orders, she was still taking customers at her astrology business, but over the phone instead of in person.

  Mr. Ingersoll drifted closer, and the whiff of a campfire drifted into Charlie’s nose. Ghosts always smelled like smoke to him.

  “What will we do if a ghost gives us trouble?” asked Mr. Ingersoll. “Your grandma always handles them, like that time four years ago.”

  Charlie shuddered at the memory. On rare occasions, a spirit would arrive from the underworld inconsolable, desperate to fix something that they couldn’t fix in life. Their pain—so sharp—would eventually affect the living, and only Waipo knew how to help them.

  “We’re going to need your help. Your grandma can teach you,” said Mr. Ingersoll.

  Charlie ducked down his head. His parents had been hinting too that he should take over Waipo’s spiritual duties, but he changed the subject every time they brought it up. Over the summer he’d gotten a full ride to Alabaster Prep, one of the top five high schools in the state. None of his new classmates knew about the old Charlie Ma, the one with the glasses and the scrawny build of a scallion, not to mention the odd family. He wore contact lenses now, and he was lifting weights at the Y three nights a week. And nobody teased him about his eccentric grandma, because none of them had met her.

  Charlie winced at hi
s own thoughts. He loved his waipo so much, but he wished that she wasn’t so different.

  That he wasn’t so different.

  “There’s something else,” Mr. Ingersoll pressed.

  Charlie pretended not to hear and rang up a girl at the register buying a tin of black tea and a jar of kachampuli. He hated ignoring Mr. Ingersoll, but if he wanted to fit in, he couldn’t keep whispering to dead people.

  Mr. Ingersoll, however, wasn’t going away. As soon as the customer left, he said, “Listen to me, kiddo. I’ve heard that there’s a ghost already at the gates, screaming to get out of the underworld and into this one.” He leaned closer, the campfire scent overwhelming. “They’re calling it the Slender One.”

  A chill nipped down Charlie’s spine. He had never heard of a spirit doing that before.

  “Our families could be in danger. We need your help, Charlie,” Mr. Ingersoll said.

  I can’t. I’m sorry, Charlie thought, but he said instead, “We’ll talk later, okay?” He shrugged off his apron to reveal his uniform underneath, and he yanked open the door that led to his apartment upstairs.

  “Ma! Ba! I’m leaving,” he said in Mandarin.

  His mother appeared at the top of the stairs. “Did you eat yet? Waipo is asking for you.”

  Guilt tugged at Charlie’s gut, but it wasn’t enough to get him up the steps. “I’m going to be late,” he said before bolting.

  “Charlie!” his mom said. “When will you get home?”

  “Charlie!” Mr. Ingersoll said. “What about tonight?”

  Charlie didn’t turn around. If he wanted to become the new Charlie Ma, then he had to leave the old one behind.

  The city would be fine.

  That’s what he told himself anyway.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Charlie hurried onto Alabaster’s pristine campus and headed to the next meeting of the Cultural Exchange Club. He’d signed up for the early morning club to round out his extracurriculars, but the reason he kept coming back had nothing to do with college applications.