Typical American (27 page)

"Han," rasped Theresa then, eyes wide.

Helen froze.

The moment distended. Had Theresa really taken up residence in herself? They prepared to welcome her, even as they waited for her to be carried back out to the hungry sea, a distant head dipping out of sight once more.

"Callie," Theresa went on. She moved her arm weakly. "Mona."

*95

running the rest of the way. Through the giant peonies, elaborately staked; racing. His sister won, of course; and at the end they dug up some stones they'd buried the day before. These were just to hold—cool to the touch, though the day was hot. He remembered holding the stones to his cheek, murmuring with pleasure; his sister did it too.

Such was the simplicity of childhood, he thought now— events vanished, wordless. He draped a scarf around his neck, his elation fading. This time, an adult, he would have to say something. He would have to find words. But what words? As he left the apartment, he felt as if he were wearing a great animal of a winter coat. In fact, he did have on a coat—outside it was snowing wildly—and the coat was quite heavy. But his bones seemed to bend under the load, and that was odd; he could imagine a photoelastic image of them, all stress lines. If only he could take the coat off! He searched for his hat in slow motion. His keys. He patted his pants, feeling for his wallet. His stomach clenched. Such happy news!

As Helen had driven to the hospital, Ralph had to take a cab. Outside, he realized that he should have called one from the apartment, but he was reluctant to go back in; to go back in would seem somehow to be making no progress. Instead, then, he raised his weighty arm. Earlier in the day, the snow had been delicate as dandelion puffs; the flakes had perched on top of each other with abandon and ease. But since that time, the storm had turned so sodden that it did not seem like snow at all that was showering, so much as something industrial—some unnatural tonnage dumped without permit out of the sky. Cars skidded. Behind the iced windows, drivers gripped their wheels, swearing. Ralph's hat molded itself to his head. Cold masked his face.

No one stopped.

His coat stiffened around him, a prison.

What escape was possible? It seemed to him at that moment, as he stood waiting and waiting, trapped in his coat, that a man

was as doomed here as he was in China. Kan bu jian. Ting bu jian. He could not always see, could not always hear. He was not what he made up his mind to be. A man was the sum of his limits; freedom only made him see how much so. America was no America. Ralph swallowed.

And yet even as he embraced that bleak understanding, on this, the worst day of the winter, he recalled something he'd seen on the worst day of the worst heat wave of the summer. This memory was one of watching—of peeking out his bedroom window to see what Theresa and Old Chao were up to. How hot it was that afternoon! He had wanted to know when he could come out. So he'd snuck a look: and there they were, floating on twin inflatable rafts, in twin blue wading pools of water. Spinning around and around, like airplane propellers. Theresa lay on her stomach, Old Chao on his back. Both sipped at lemonade, through straws, "join us! Join us!" they cried, giddy, to his wife.

On the patio, Helen laughed. "Whose idea was this?"

"His idea."

"No, hers! It was hers."

"His!"

"Hers!"

"Not true!" Theresa splashed Old Chao.

Old Chao sat up, bobbing, preparing for retribution. "Watch out," he warned teasingly, his hand cupped.

Were these people he knew? Ralph had watched the water fight with sadness in his heart, never guessing the scene would one day hearten him, as it did now. Shuo bu chu lai. Who could begin to say what he meant, what had happened, what he'd done? And yet Ralph held his arm up in the snow all the same, thinking how he hadn't even known Theresa owned a bathing suit. An orange one! Old Chao's was gray, a more predictable choice.

END

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