China Dog (4 page)

When an arrival date for John’s family was established, Sam permitted his sons to close the restaurant for a half-day. Both brothers were to go to the airport to greet the family from China. The brothers recognized their father’s generosity in giving them a half-day off. For five years, the restaurant had never been closed. However, there was one problem. It was winter and they had only the one coat to share between them. Both John and Ken realized that a new coat was a significant purchase, one that would have to have Sam’s approval. As the arrival date of John’s family drew nearer, and the temperatures grew colder, the need for a second coat was becoming urgent.

John and Ken discussed the purchase of a second coat from every angle. How could they convince the old man to part with enough money for a new coat? Timing was essential. After closing time, Ken and John always scurried around the restaurant. They swept and washed the floors, filled the glass sugar dispensers and the miniature china creamers, and cleaned up the dirty dishes. Meanwhile, Sam sat alone in the wooden booth at the back of the restaurant. He carefully calculated the day’s profits, his fingers flying over the rings of a black wooden abacus brought many years ago from China. If the earnings were good, Sam invited his sons to share a glass of whisky. But if the earnings were poor, Sam drank alone and glowered
at the wooden walls of the booth while his sons continued silently working. Naturally, John and Ken decided to approach Sam on a night the whisky was shared.

The day after his discussion with Ken, John came to visit my parents. Though I heard him chuckling as he confided to my mother about the logistics of the timing, every word was coated with resentment. At first he decided that Saturday should be the asking day. But then my mother pointed out that if permission to purchase was granted on a Saturday night, Sam might change his mind by the time stores opened on Monday. She convinced John that Friday was a better day. Business was usually good. And the stores were open on Saturday.

On the chosen Friday, John visited us late in the afternoon. The wind sounded particularly shrill that day as it sprayed blasts of white powdery snow over the sidewalks. When John walked into the laundry, he looked as if someone had dusted him with icing sugar. He seemed quite agitated. I remember hearing him speak with great determination. “In a few days my family will be here. We’ll all be living upstairs. I will be the one responsible for them.” He glanced at my mother, who nodded in agreement. “I’m going to have to stand up to that old man. I carry all this money in my pocket.” He patted the front pocket of his pants emphatically before continuing. “And I have to ask permission to spend it. What right does he have to object? I work hard. This isn’t China. Things are different here.” Again, my parents said very little. They mostly smiled and nodded reassuringly. Then John suddenly remembered,
“Today is payday at the mill!” He smiled and exclaimed, “Today business will be good. Guaranteed!”

Just before he left, John walked over to the corner where I sat pretending to read a comic book. He patted me on the shoulder and grinned. “Not too much longer now.” I looked up and smiled. John looked so happy. As I nodded, I felt an ever so slight cramp in my stomach.

That Friday, after the restaurant closed, Sam counted his money, smiled, and invited his sons for a glass of whisky. This was the moment John had been waiting for. His father offered him a glass. He took a large, quick gulp. “Father, you know that my wife and family will be arriving on Wednesday. You have been generous enough to let Ken come with me to the airport to greet them.” Sam nodded his head.

John continued, with Ken nervously looking on. “But, Father, we have only one coat. The weather is very cold. We need to buy another coat.”

Sam carefully set down his whisky glass. His face slowly hardened at the boldness of his son’s request. John was ready to panic, but then Ken blurted out, “John’s son will need a coat for school. Your grandson cannot walk to school without a coat. A second one for us, one the boy can grow into.”

Sam’s face broke into a smile. His gold teeth gleamed. “Very good,” he said and finished his whisky. The brothers breathed a sigh of relief.

The next morning, John and Ken dashed across the street to the clothing store that was owned by Paul Holmes. Paul had arrived in the small town from Europe just after the Second World War. Like Sam Sing, he saw opportunities for a new life in the New World. He had been in business for only a few years when Sam Sing, having purchased the restaurant from its previous owner, arrived with his sons. Like Sam and his sons, Paul had worked hard building his business. And like them, he owed his present financial security more to self-denial and hard work, than to astute business sense. Over the years, Sam and his sons had bought the occasional piece of clothing from Paul, and Paul had eaten the occasional meal in the restaurant. Although everyone kept pretty much to themselves, they had a mutual respect that arose from a recognition of each other’s hardships, honesty, and frugality.

John and Ken looked carefully around the store. Dark suits hung sombrely on racks, and shirts wrapped in plastic were stacked inside a case of wooden shelves. A cabinet with a glass counter and sides contained more shirts, sweaters, cufflinks, and tie clips. Everything had a place. The air smelled faintly of sizing. The brothers suddenly became acutely aware of the shabbiness of their own clothing and the dim scent of cooking oil emanating from their pores. Paul smiled politely at them. And they smiled politely back. Finally John said to Paul, “My wife, my boy, and my girl come to Canada from China. We want a coat.”

Paul showed John and Ken many coats – grey ones, blue ones, brown ones, double-breasted, single-breasted, with belts,
without belts, but none would do. As John’s fingers gently touched the thick pile of one coat and the borg fur collar of another, he realized without even being told that each was too expensive. Ken pointed out the price of one coat: it was twenty dollars! John sucked his breath between his teeth, making a whistling sound, to show his shock. At the restaurant a cup of coffee was ten cents, and a full meal of fish and chips with soup and dessert was fifty cents. How many would they have to sell to pay for even the cheapest coat, which was twelve dollars?

The brothers were both extremely frugal and not at all concerned with personal adornment or style.

Then Paul had an idea. He went into the storage closet at the back of the store. In contrast to the showroom, where every item of clothing knew its place, the storage was crammed with outdated garments that Paul brought out twice a year to sell at reduced prices. He brought out a brown and orange plaid coat, covered in plastic. It was definitely not in style, but it was brand new. He offered it to the brothers for half the price of the cheapest coat in the store. That meant it was only six dollars. This was a bargain the brothers could not refuse. Ken tried it on. He admired himself in the full-length mirror. The coat was slightly too large. But no matter – the price was right. John turned to Paul. “Okay. We take.” John reached into his pocket and brought out a thick wad of bills. He carefully handed Paul a blue five-dollar bill, and a green one-dollar bill.

Just as they were about to leave the store, Paul shouted, “Wait!” He quickly returned to his storage room and brought
out another coat in dusty plastic wrap. John could tell that underneath the wrap the coat was a brownish grey tweed with large red flecks. With a twinkle in his eye, Paul cried, “One dollar.” The brothers couldn’t believe their luck! They didn’t even bother to try on the coat.

After the purchase, John immediately hurried over to our laundry. My mother sat on a stool sorting socks for the wash, as John chuckled and bragged about their triumph. We heard every detail. Sam had apparently only grumbled a little about their overspending. But John knew that he was secretly impressed with the bargain they had struck with Paul. As John left, he reminded me, his voice nervous and happy with anticipation, “In another few days there will be Chinese children for you to play with.” I nodded and smiled stiffly.

Four days later, as I was walking home from school for lunch, I saw John and Ken waiting in line, outside the five-and-dime store, to board the bus to Toronto. Their coats were large and stiff, the shoulders too wide and the length too long. They reminded me of turtles with their heads poking through hard protective shells, one decorated in a brown and orange plaid, the other in dark grey with large red flecks. From the way they looked at the other passengers – the large heavy woman whose girth strained against the buttons of her faded wool jacket, and the young woman who stood slightly shivering in her thin fashionable coat and fur-trimmed ankle boots – I could tell that John and Ken were proud of their coverings, proof of the
success they were experiencing in the Gold Mountain, decent shells for the old, shabby clothes hiding underneath.

I stood and waved to them. They smiled proudly back. In a few more hours there would be three more Chinese people in our small town. I would have to take the new children to school with me, introduce them to the teachers and to my friends. Translate for them, and more. I waved for a moment longer, then turned and ran all the way home.

HUA FAN STOOD
in front of the ironing table looking at the letter. He did not expect another from China so soon. The last one had arrived just two weeks earlier. He looked at the envelope, admiring the graceful, careful script that belonged to the village schoolmaster. As Hua Fan read, a mixture of real concern and guilty relief washed over him. His mother was seriously ill; he should return to China as soon as possible. He had waited five years for this opportunity, for an excuse to go back. With the war over, it would be safe. But how to tell Elder Uncle? Elder Uncle, who had provided passage on the boat, who had given him a home for the last five years, who was providing an opportunity to make money in
Gam Sun
, the Gold Mountain?

Hua Fan carefully refolded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. After putting it away underneath the wooden drawer holding the customer cash, he turned to the ironing table. There was one more shirt to iron for “Doctor
Uncle.” When Hua Fan was finished, he stacked it with the other pressed shirts and placed the handkerchiefs and collars on top. Then he wrapped the package of laundry in brown paper and tied it with string. As he was placing it on the wooden shelf along with the other parcels, a
lo fon
walked into the laundry. Hua Fan turned. Just as the door was closing, he caught a glimpse of the budding leaves on the tree outside the laundry. Standing behind the counter was a new
lo fon
uncle, one he didn’t recognize. Hua Fan smiled at him, but before he was able to speak, the
lo fon
shouted, “Hey, Charlie, I’ve lost my ticket. I know – no tickee, no laundree.” Hua Fan didn’t even wait for the wild gesticulations to begin. After listening to a quick description of the items, he started to search for a tag with a listing that matched. Today he was lucky. He had to unwrap only three different bundles before the
lo fon
stranger recognized the one belonging to him. Some days, after a
lo fon
with no ticket left, he was stuck with as many as eight parcels to rewrap. Hua Fan cursed under his breath as he watched the
lo fon
step out the door, whistling, the package under his arm.

One week after his arrival in
Gam Sun
, Elder Uncle had sent Hua Fan to Doctor Uncle’s house to pick up some laundry. The doctor’s wife was a plump, gentle woman who taught Sunday school at the Methodist church. She opened the door to the kitchen and motioned for Hua Fan to step inside, smiling as she spoke, warm, indecipherable sounds coming out of her mouth, a faint scent of flowery talc emanating from
her clothes. She gestured to a chair and Hua Fan sat down. Before leaving the room to gather the clothes, she gave him a slice of cake on a thin china plate. The cake was moist and delicious, but the coating was sticky and sweet, leaving a dull ache in his teeth.

As Hua Fan trudged along with the bag of soiled laundry slung across his back, he stopped for a moment and stood looking around. The sky was a clear, chilling blue. He looked up and squinted at the sun. All around him the village was draped in white. Behind was a trail of footprints, each one like a shaft sliced deeply into the snow. The whiteness of the landscape felt eternal. It was hard to imagine what lay hidden underneath. Would the trees’ grey branches, sticking out like bony gnarled fingers, really sprout green leaves? Was the soil under the snow really brown?

Hua Fan looked deceptively stocky. The many layers of stockings, pants, undershirts, and sweaters under his thick black quilted cotton jacket created an impression of bulk. On his head he wore a brown knitted toque. His long black queue flowed from underneath his hat and down his back. Still, he never felt sufficiently protected from the winter air. It always managed to pierce, one by one, each stratum of clothing. Back in China, he had listened in disbelief to stories about the frigid temperatures in Canada. He laughed when he heard about men losing their ears and fingers after they were frozen. He had pictured them falling cleanly off, making a clink as they hit the ground! Every time he stepped out of the laundry he was shocked by the biting winter air. Even though he felt it
every day, this Canadian winter would always be a mystery to him. They would never be on familiar terms.

As Hua Fan struggled through the foot-deep snow, something came hurtling out of nowhere and struck him on the mouth. His top lip started to swell and his teeth felt bruised as he watched the drops of blood fall one by one. The dark centres radiated and faded into the absorbing snow. Red on white. His blood tasted salty and metallic. When Hua Fan looked up he saw a pair of blue eyes, as cold as the surrounding air, menacing in their clarity, disconnected from face or body. He looked down again and saw, lying at his feet, a jagged chunk of ice. Suddenly the blue eyes creased into a laugh, and more chunks of ice and balls of snow were hurled at him.