A Paper Son (4 page)

“You have no idea what you're saying,” her father said.

“Maybe that's why I need to go,” she said. “If it doesn't work out, I'll come back.”

Her mother emitted a short mean laugh. Her father took his glasses off again and rubbed his eyes. “Do you know how hard it was for us to get here?” he said again.

“Yes,” she said.

“No, you don't,” he said.

The boat sails through the morning, navigating a complex network of rivers and tributaries. Li-Yu quickly loses track of their turns. The paddies around her might as well be endless. Around midday they begin to shrink; the ground buckles and rises, transforming into hills and ridges. They sail past the mouths of river valleys, whose curving interiors open and reveal themselves and then close. Flood plains appear and recede, each of them dotted with villages. That night she helps the children make beds on the deck with their clothes and bags. She and Bing watch the stars, and then she falls asleep, sitting up, leaning against him.

In the middle of the next morning the ship enters what looks like just another wide floodplain, but when Bing studies the surrounding hills he jumps as though pricked by a thorn. “This is it!” he cries, pointing upriver. Li-Yu and the children lean over the railing but see nothing. He addresses the children. “Are you ready to meet your
yeh
and
mah
?” he says. Rose and Henry nod, all the while scanning the landscape.

At the far end of the floodplain the boat follows a final curve in the river and a small wharf appears. The boat jostles into position along the pier and once it moors the family disembarks, along with a handful of other passengers. There are men to help them with their luggage. Together the little group heads up the road, Bing talking happily with the porters. He recognizes one of the other passengers, and the men embrace. Bing fires off a string of rapid questions, but is almost too excited to listen to the answers. Now Li-Yu has to smile. For years, the image she has held in her mind of her husband has had him behind the counter of his little shop on Channel Street in Stockton, talking noisily with his customers. But far more of his life has transpired here at the base of these hills, alongside this river. She reminds herself that even though they have been married ten years and have had two children together, there are parts of him—whole countries—she doesn't know. Henry and Rose are watching him, too, and for the first time in weeks she sees an end to their fatigue and boredom.

The road runs along the hills' feet, a dirt line that divides the slopes from the rice paddies. Buildings soon arise, made of bricks the same color as the earth, and crossroads appear and branch through the growing village, carrying men in dark clothing who walk with purpose, their farming tools swinging and catching the sunlight on their blades. There is an old woman in dark robes near the side of the road. She lifts a wrinkled hand and lets out a happy cry. Bing all but leaps. He drops his bags and runs to her, and the two of them embrace. A smile illuminates her face—Bing's smile. Bing turns and beckons Henry to come to him.

“This is your
mah
,” he says. “Her name is Jiao. Say hello!”

“
Nihau
,” says Jiao, squatting down and wrapping her arms around Henry. Henry stiffens but brings his arms up and returns the woman's hug. She holds him with a look of such joy on her face that Li-Yu feels herself warming all over, her misgivings breaking apart. Finally Jiao releases Henry and stands. Rose steps forward, a smile on her face, her arms outstretched. But Jiao does not reach for her—instead she tilts her head and looks her over, as if uncertain what she's seeing. Li-Yu looks to Bing but he has already gone; she sees him hurrying up a pathway among some houses, pointing to things and talking again to the porters, who are scrambling to keep up with him. Li-Yu cannot hear what he is saying. The women stand for a moment longer, considering one another, and then Jiao takes Henry's arm and darts after Bing. Li-Yu and Rose join the pursuit.

The caravan weaves quickly through the village, up and down through a sloping network of serpentine dirt paths. As Li-Yu follows she searches for explanations. Jiao had not heard, or she had misunderstood. Perhaps she had mistaken them for someone else? Who? She sees Henry struggling to keep pace with Jiao, who still has him by the arm, and who moves with surprising ease for her age. He glances over his shoulder and gives Li-Yu a look that stabs at her heart. You don't have to pull him like that, she wants to cry out. Now she can hear Jiao calling something out to Bing, but he will not slow down or turn around. They reach the far edge of the village where there is a clearing, and then a doorway, and without having registered a single impression of the house's exterior, Li-Yu finds herself standing inside, along with the rest of the heavily breathing procession. The floor of the front room is made of wooden planks, and there is a faded carpet covering much of it. Vertical wooden posts support heavy roof beams. Across from them, on an ornate wooden couch covered with blankets, there sits a woman with an imperious look on her face. Her hair is drawn up into a tight bun, her body hidden beneath layers of robes. She does not rise or speak or smile. Bing takes Henry by the hand and pushes him into the center of the room, as though he is some sort of offering. She looks him up and down, not smiling, and then her eyes flash across the rest of the faces in the room. When they reach Li-Yu's, they narrow, and drill into her.

Jiao appears at Li-Yu's side. She looks her in the face, and then gestures toward the woman on the couch. “Wife number one,” she says, a tiny smile touching the corners of her mouth. She places a hand on Li-Yu's shoulder. “Wife number two,” she says.

The room goes gray, along with everything in it. Li-Yu gropes for her children, to pull them in to her, but Henry is too far away, and she does not find Rose.

***

I looked up from my laptop, and the wooden room in long-ago China became my living room. Its couch morphed into mine; its occupants became my bookshelves and television. It was nearly ten o'clock. I had been at my computer for five hours straight, and my eyes felt as though I hadn't blinked once. I clamped them shut. Orange lights wheeled across the interiors of my eyelids. I read over my last few sentences, saved my document, and shut my laptop. It had been years since I'd managed a session like that. I rose and headed for the shower, shaking the feeling back into my arms. I climbed in and turned my face into the stream. Over the water I could hear strains of music rising from somewhere in the building, a strange and lilting melody that must have been turned up loud to reach me through the walls and the sounds of the shower. It died when I stepped out. I went to bed, fell asleep without effort, and dreamed I was lost, adrift on a white sea on a raft made of pages torn from a giant book.

I awoke before dawn. Great raindrops burst apart on the black windows and smeared the light from the street lamps in rolling patterns. I rose, turned on my teakettle, and sat down at my desk. The flier from
The Barbary Quarterly
still lay there, beside the computer, an e-mail address on its corner. I read through the pages I'd written the night before, looking for something I cared to rewrite, and because it seemed strange that nothing should present itself, I changed a couple of words and then changed them back. I opened a new e-mail, typed in the address, tapped out a few lines of introduction, attached my story, and sent it off.

I drank my morning coffee, ate a grapefruit and a boiled egg, and when it was time I gathered my things and headed outside.

The world was made of wind and water; my umbrella's efforts were laughable. Once in my classroom I dumped my things, spooled out several feet of scratchy, semi-absorbent paper towels, and mopped the water from my hair and clothes. I brewed a pot of tea and found the family absent from my mug. Perhaps with my story and my submission they were satisfied that they had my attention. I'd check back later. Only then did I realize I'd failed to plan anything for the day. I hoped it might be Wednesday, which would mean back-to-back trips to the music room and the computer lab that morning; that would buy me the time to pull something together. I consulted my calendar and confirmed my hope.

“Everything okay in here, Peregrine?” a deep voice called from my doorway. It was Franklin Nash. A cheerful red and blue robot on his tie squinted at me through the sights of a gigantic laser cannon.

“Everything's fine,” I said. “Had you heard otherwise?”

“No, no,” he said. “I was just making my rounds. But now you're making me wonder.” He grinned.

“What's with your robot?” I said. “Is he a sadist or something?”

He laughed. “I tell the kids it's a telescope.”

“And they buy that?”

“Not for a second.” He pointed across my room, toward the windows. “This rain,” he said. “I don't think you're going to get much in the way of recess today. If you need a reprieve, give me a call and I'll come spell you for a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Remember, I can only be in five places at once.” He knocked twice on the doorframe, the signal he would be moving on. “Don't be the sixth to call.” Annabel Nightingale immediately filled his space, as though pulled into the vacuum he'd left. She wore a raincoat that reached from her ankles to her throat. It was blood red, and covered with concentric circles and spirals in reds, yellows, and oranges. She looked like a Klimt painting.

“Did you see the kindergarten playground yet?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Follow me,” she said.

She led me through the slick hallways, which were filling with dripping children and the smell of mildew. She pushed through the doors that led to the scaled-down playground at the back of the school. The drain had clogged and now perhaps two inches of water covered the ground. The surface was a chaos of droplets, falling and leaping and diving again.

“And this is after just one night,” she said.

***

The rain continued over the next few days, its assault on the city relentless. Sewers clogged and streets flooded. The power blinked on and off across the city; traffic crept and knotted in darkened intersections. The weathermen advised us all to spend the weekend inside and I was content to comply, reading and watching movies and making loose plans for the family I'd stranded in rural China. On Monday my classroom windows were buffeted by alternating waves of rain and wind and the sounds of sirens rising from the city below. My cooped-up kids did their best to contain their energy and anxiety. My tea revealed nothing.

Sometime later that week, my story appeared in
The Barbary Quarterly.
The editors hadn't contacted me at all—no acceptance letter, no corrections or suggestions, no galleys—so I was surprised to arrive home, after another long wet day at school, to open the manila envelope and find a copy of the journal, along with a handwritten note on yellowed paper that said, “Thank you. Send more please.” A twenty-dollar bill fell out of the package and onto my desk. The envelope's contents were all damp, and smelled of seawater. The journal's paper felt cheap; the printing was off-center and slanted slightly. My story had top billing. At its conclusion, they'd added, “To be continued.” Next was an excerpt from someone's memoir that had to do with memories of a ballet class and someone having typhoid. Also included were a pair of short stories and a handful of poems. The cover bore a striking image—a sepia-tone photograph of a Chinese girl about the age of my students, her hands clasped behind her back, looking directly into the camera with an empty expression. She was standing in the middle of a Chinatown sidewalk. She looked a lot like Rose, I thought.

My phone rang and I dropped the journal onto my desk. It was my sister Lucy. “How are you doing, you sweet soggy apple-cheeked son of a bitch?” she said. I do not have apple cheeks. My face is on the narrow side, and my complexion is a touch paler than average. “Peregrine, I have some tales for you that will make your hairs stand on end. This city is a strange and twisted place and if it sounds like I'm okay with it right now, it's only because I've been drinking Irish coffees for the last two hours. Shit. Hang on a minute.” She was muffling the phone, and then barraging somebody with profanity. I waited a minute, and then another, and then she was back. “Sorry about that. My car was about to get towed. I told the fucker I'd pepper spray him if he hooked it.” She loved to pepper spray people—I had stopped keeping track of her victims somewhere around her junior year in college. “But listen, the reason I'm calling is to tell you to get ready for a houseguest.” She let out a yelp. “Holy crap, Perry!” she yelled. “I gotta go. This guy is coming back from his truck with a gas mask and a crowbar and—”

And she was gone.

***

Two nights later I was stir-frying chicken when Eva Wong came through my door, with her rain-smeared mascara and her wet luggage and her bewildering accusations. She was about sixty. She wore a clear vinyl raincoat that reached her knees and a matching rain hat, and something black underneath. I expected to hear an accent, but when she spoke she sounded as American as my mom.

“You're Peregrine Long?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize me?” she asked, without smiling.

I shook my head. “Should I?” Only then did I remember Lucy's mention of a houseguest—it had been lost somewhere between her cursing and her gas mask report.

Eva reached down, lifted a canvas suitcase, and walked past me, limping slightly, heading for the couch. She sat down with a heavy exhalation and looked around the room, taking in the empty walls, the small bookshelf, perhaps her own warped reflection in the black television screen. “My feet hurt,” she said, “and I could use some tea.” She dropped her bag on the floor, removed her raincoat and hat, and tossed them alongside her bag before sinking into the couch. She looked over at me. “You're letting in a draft.”