The Kitchen God's Wife Part 3

"What does that say?" I ask my mother quietly.

" 'Hope that your next life is long and prosperous.' Nothing too special," my mother replies. "I didn't write it. This is from people with the Kwong family a.s.sociation. Maybe Helen gave them a donation."

I see all the wreaths perched on their easels. I search for mine, and I'm about to ask my mother where it is, when Uncle Henry turns the spotlight on again and starts filming Grand Auntie Du, lying at center stage. He waves to someone at stage left.

The next moment, I hear hollow wooden knocking sounds, followed by a persistent ding-ding-ding, as if someone were impatiently ringing for the bellhop in a hotel lobby. These sounds are joined by two voices, chanting a tune that seems to consist of the same four notes and syllables. It repeats so many times I'm sure it's a record that has become stuck.

But now, emerging from the left alcove are two Buddhist monks with shaved heads, dressed in saffron-colored robes. The older, larger monk lights a long stick of incense, bows three times to the body, then places the incense in the burner and backs away, bowing again. The younger monk is sounding the wooden clapper. Then they both begin walking down the aisle slowly, chanting, "Ami-, Ami-, Amitaba, Amitaba." As the older monk pa.s.ses by, I see one cheek is flattened, and the ear on the same side is badly misshapen.

"He must have been in a terrible car accident," I whisper to my mother.

"Cultural Revolution," she says.

The smaller monk, I can see now, is not a monk at all, but a woman, a nun with three or four small scabs on her skull.

"She must have been in the Cultural Revolution too," I tell my mother.

My mother looks. "Too young. Flea bites, maybe," she concludes.

"Amitaba, Amitaba," they drone. And now the old ladies in the old-style jackets begin moaning and wailing, waving their arms up and down, overcome with grief, it seems. Uncle Henry turns the camera toward them.

"Are they Grand Auntie's good friends?" I ask my mother.

She frowns. "Not friends, maybe Chinese people from Vietnam. They came early, later saw we didn't have too many people to mourn Grand Auntie. So they talked to Auntie Helen, she gave them a few dollars. And now they're doing the old custom, crying out loud and acting like they don't want the dead person to leave so fast. This is how you show respect."

I nod. Respect.

"Maybe these ladies can do two or three funerals every day," my mother adds, "earn a few dollars. Good living that way. Better than cleaning house."

"Um," I answer. I don't know if my mother has said this to be disdainful or simply to state a matter of fact.

The wooden clapper and the bell sound again, faster and faster. Suddenly the white paper banner tears away from the wall, and the family a.s.sociation wishes for lucky and long life spiral down and land draped across Grand Auntie's chest like a beauty pageant banner. My mother and several of the older women jump up and cry, "Ai-ya!" Mary's son shouts, "Perfect landing!" and laughs hysterically. The monk and nun continue chanting with no change of expression. But my mother is furious. "How bad!" she mutters. She gets up and walks out of the room.

In a few minutes, she comes back with a young Caucasian man with thinning blond hair. He is wearing a black suit, so he must be with the funeral parlor. I can tell my mother is still scolding him, as she points to the disaster-ridden banner. People are murmuring loudly throughout the room. The old ladies are still wailing and bowing stiffly; the monk and nun keep chanting.

The blond man walks quickly to the front, my mother follows. He bows three times to Grand Auntie Du, then moves her casket, which glides forward easily on wheels. After another bow, the man ceremoniously plucks the banner off Grand Auntie's chest and carries it in both arms as if it were holy vestments. As he tapes the banner back up, my mother is fuming, "That corner, put more tape there! More there, too. How can you let her luck fall down like that!"

Once he has finished, the man pushes the casket back in place and bows three times to the body, once to my mother, who huffs in return, then quickly retreats. Did he bow to show genuine respect, I wonder, or has he learned to do this only for his Chinese customers?

Now Frank is pa.s.sing out lit sticks of incense to everyone. I look around, trying to figure out what to do. One by one, we each get up and join the monk and nun, everyone chanting, "Amitaba! Amitaba!"

We are circling the coffin 'round and 'round, I don't know how many times. I feel silly, taking part in a ritual that makes no sense to me. It reminds me of that time I went with some friends to the Zen center. I was the only Asian-looking person there. And I was also the only one who kept turning around, wondering impatiently when the monk would come and the sermon would begin, not realizing until I'd been there for twenty minutes that all the others weren't quietly waiting, they were meditating.

My mother is now bowing to Grand Auntie. She puts her incense in the burner, then murmurs softly, "Ai! Ai!" The others follow suit, some crying, the Vietnamese ladies wailing loudly. Now it is my turn to bow. And I feel guilty. It's the same guilt I've felt before-when my father baptized me and I did not believe I was saved forever, when I took Communion and did not believe the grape juice was the blood of Christ, when I prayed along with others that a miracle would cure my father, when I already felt he had died long before.

Suddenly a sob bursts from my chest and surprises everyone, even me. I panic and try to hold back, but everything collapses. My heart is breaking, bitter anger is pouring out and I can't stop it.

My mother's eyes are also wet. She smiles at me through her tears. And she knows this grief is not for Grand Auntie Du but for my father. Because she has been waiting for me to cry for such a long, long time, for more than twenty-five years, ever since the day of my father's funeral.

I was fourteen, full of anger and cynicism. My mother, brother, and I were sitting by ourselves in an alcove, a half-hour before the service was supposed to begin. And my mother was scolding me, because I refused to go up to the casket to see my father's body.

"Samuel said good-bye. Samuel is crying," she said.

I did not want to mourn the man in the casket, this sick person who had been thin and listless, who moaned and became helpless, who in the end searched constantly for my mother with fearful eyes. He was so unlike what my father had once been: charming and lively, strong, kind, always generous with his laughter, the one who knew exactly what to do when things went wrong. And in my father's eyes, I had been perfect, his "perfect Pearl," and not the irritation I always seemed to be with my mother.

My mother blew her nose. "What kind of daughter cannot cry for her own father?"

"That man in there is not my father," I said sullenly.

Right then my mother jumped up and slapped my face. "That bad!" she shouted. I was shocked. It was the first time she had ever struck me.

"Ai-ya! If you can't cry, I make you cry." And she slapped me again and again. "Cry! Cry!" she wailed crazily. But I sat there still as a stone.

Finally, realizing what she had done, my mother bit the back of her hand and mumbled something in Chinese. She took my brother by the hand, and they left me.

So there I sat, angry, of course, and also victorious, although over what, I didn't know. And perhaps because I didn't know, I found myself walking over to the casket. I was breathing hard, telling myself, I'm right, she's wrong. And I was so determined not to cry that I never considered I would feel anything whatsoever.

But then I saw him, colorless and thin. And he was not resting peacefully with G.o.d. His face was stern, as if still locked in his last moment of pain.

I took so many small breaths, trying to hold back, trying not to cry, that I began to hyperventilate. I ran out of the room, out into the fresh air, gasping and gulping. I ran down Columbus, toward the bay, ignoring the tourists who stared at my angry, tear-streaked face. And in the end, I missed the funeral.

In a way, this is how it's been with my mother and me ever since. We both won and we both lost, and I'm still not sure what our battle was. My mother speaks constantly of my father and his tragedy, although never of the funeral itself. And until this day, I have never cried in front of my mother or spoken of my feelings for my father.

Instead, I have tried to keep my own private memories of him-a certain smile, a coat he wore, the pa.s.sion he exuded when he stood at the pulpit. But then I always end up realizing that what I am remembering are just images from photos. And in fact, what I do remember most vividly are those times when he was ill. "Pearl," he would call weakly from his bed, "do you want help with your homework?" And I would shake my head. "Pearl," he would call from the sofa, "come help me sit up." And I would pretend I didn't hear him.

Even to this day I have nightmares about my father. In my dreams, he is always hidden in a hospital, in one of a hundred rooms with a hundred cots filled with sick people. I am wandering down long hallways, looking for him. And to do so, I must look at every face, every illness, every possible horror that can happen to one's body and mind. And each time I see it is not my father, I shake with relief.

I have had many variations of this dream. In fact, I had one just recently. In this version, I have gone to the hospital for a checkup, to see if the multiple sclerosis has advanced. Without explanation, a doctor puts me in a ward with terminally ill patients. And I'm shouting, "You can't treat me this way! You have to explain!" I shout and shout and shout, but n.o.body comes.

And that's when I see him. He is sitting in front of me, on a dirty cot, in soiled bedclothes. He is old and pathetically thin, his hair now white and patchy after years of waiting and neglect. I sit next to him and whisper, "Daddy?" He looks up with those helpless searching eyes. And when he sees me, he gives a small startled cry-then cries and cries, so happy!-so happy I have finally come to take him home.

Grand Auntie's memorial service is finally over. We are all standing outside and the bay wind has already started to blow, cutting through our thin jackets and causing skirts to whip up. My eyes are stinging and I feel completely drained.

My mother stands quietly next to me, peering at me every now and then. I know she wants to talk about what happened, not about all the disasters at the funeral, but why I cried.

"All right?" my mother asks gently.

"Fine," I say, and try to look as normal as possible. "Phil and the girls should be here any minute." My mother pulls a balled-up Kleenex from her sweater sleeve and hands it to me without a word, pointing to her own eye to indicate I've smudged my mascara.

Right then, Bao-bao comes up. "Boy, that was sure weird," he says. "But I guess that's the kind of funeral the old lady wanted. She always was a bit you-know," and he taps his finger twice to the side of his head.

My mother frowns. "What is you-know?"

Bao-bao grins sheepishly. "You know, uh, different, unusual-a great lady!" He looks at me and shrugs. And then relief springs to his face. "Whoa! There's Mimi with the car. Gotta run. You guys going to the cemetery?"

I shake my head. My mother looks at me, surprised.

Bao-bao walks over to a s.h.i.+ny black Camaro, and Mimi slides over so he can drive. "I don't got a choice. Mom roped me into being one of the pallbearers." He flexes his arm. "Good thing I've been pumping iron." He turns the radio way up and flexes his arm faster in rhythm with the vibrating music. "Well, nice seeing you again, Pearl. Catch you later, Auntie." The car rumbles off.

And now I hear Auntie Helen calling from behind. "Pearl! Pearl!" She waddles over, dabbing a tissue to her eyes at the same time. "You going to the cemetery? Nice buffet afterward, our house. Lots of good food. Your mother made the potstickers. I made a good chicken dish. Mary and Doug will be there. You come."

"We can't. Tomorrow's a work day, and it's a long drive."

"Oh, you kids," she says, and throws her hands up in mock frustration, "always too busy! Well, you come visit me soon. No invitation needed. You come, so we can talk."

"Okay," I lie.

"Winnie-ah!" Auntie Helen now calls loudly to my mother, even though they are standing only five feet apart. "You come with us to the cemetery. Henry is getting the car now."

"Pearl is taking me home," my mother answers, and I stand there, trying to figure out how she manages to catch me every time.

Auntie Helen walks up to my mother, a worried look on her face. She asks her quickly in Chinese: Not coming? Are you feeling sick?

I can't understand all the Mandarin words, only the gist of them. It seems my mother doesn't want anyone to worry, nothing is wrong, only a little discomfort here-and she points to her chest-because something-something has been bothering her. She mentions something-something about the banner falling down, and how her whole body has been aching ever since.

Auntie Helen rubs my mother's back. She tells my mother she can visit Auntie Du when something-something is more quiet, not running around all over the place. And then Auntie Helen laughs and tells my mother that Auntie Du will wait, of course she will wait for her visit, she has no choice. And my mother jokes back that maybe Auntie Du has already become mad-to-death about what happened today and has flown off to something-something place where she doesn't have to do something-something anymore with such a crazy family.

They are laughing hysterically now, laughing so hard that tears sprout from their eyes and they are barely able to catch their breath. My mother covers her mouth with her hand, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Uncle Henry drives the car up, and as Auntie Helen climbs in, she sternly reminds my mother to drink plenty of hot tea. They take off, beeping the horn twice.

"Aren't you feeling well?" I ask my mother.

"Ah?"

"You told Auntie Helen you couldn't go to the cemetery because you were sick."

"I didn't say sick. I only said I didn't want to go. I did my duty. I sent Auntie Du to heaven. Now it's Helen's duty to put her inside the ground."

That's not what they said. And although I'm not sure I understood most of their conversation, apparently there's a lot I don't know about my mother and Auntie Helen.

As we drive across town to my mother's house, Phil drops hints: "I hope we're on the freeway before the weekend rush hour to get back home."

My mother is making small talk. She tells me that Bao-bao may lose his job soon. This gossip she heard at the dinner from Uncle Loy, who heard it from his son. She tells me that Frank is now working the day s.h.i.+ft as a security guard, but he is breaking Auntie Helen's heart, spending all his extra time and money at a pool hall on Geary Street.

As we get closer to her house, she points to a place on Clement Street, Happy Super, where she always does her grocery shopping. It's one of the typical Asian markets in the neighborhood, people standing outside, pinching and poking through piles of fruits and vegetables, hundred-pound bags of rice stacked like giant bricks against the window.

"Tofu, how much do you pay?" asks my mother, and I can tell she's eager to outdo me with a better price, to tell me how I can save twenty or thirty cents at her store.

But I can't even oblige her with a guess. "I don't know. I've never bought tofu."

"Oh." She looks disappointed. And then she brightens. "Four rolls of toilet paper, how much?"

"One sixty-nine," I answer right away.

"You see!" she says. "My place, only ninety-nine cents. Good brands, too. Next time, I buy you some. You can pay me back."

We turn left onto Eighth Avenue and head toward Anza. Auntie Helen and Uncle Henry live one block up, on Ninth. The houses in this area all look the same to me, variations of two-story row houses built in the twenties, differing mostly in what color they are painted and whether the front has been modernized in stucco, asbestos s.h.i.+ngles, or aluminum siding. Phil pulls into my mother's driveway. The front of her place is Day-Glo pink, the unfortunate result of her being talked into a special deal by a longtime customer, a painting contractor. And because the outside is b.u.mpy stucco, the whole effect looks like Pepto-Bismol poured over cottage cheese. Amazingly enough, of all the things my mother complains about, the color of the house is not one of them. She actually thinks it's pretty.

"When will I see you again?" she asks me as she climbs out of the car.

"Oh, soon," I say.

"Soon like Auntie Helen's soon?" she says.

"No, soon. Really."

She pauses, looking as if she doesn't believe me. "Oh, anyway, I will see you at Bao-bao's wedding next month."

"What? The wedding is next month? I didn't hear that."

"Very fast," my mother says, nodding. "Edna Fong from our church said she heard this from her daughter. Mimi washes her hair at that beauty shop. Mimi told Edna Fong's daughter they are in a big hurry to get married. And Edna Fong said to me, Maybe because something else is hurrying to come out. Auntie Helen doesn't know this yet. Don't tell her."

So there goes Auntie Helen's theory about Bao-bao's getting married because she's going to die soon. Something's growing all right, but it's not a tumor in Auntie Helen's head.

My mother climbs out of the car. She turns back and gives Tessa a cheek to kiss, then Cleo. My mother is not the cheek-kissing type, but she knows we have taught the girls to do this with Phil's parents.

"Bye-bye, Ha-bu!" they each say. "We love you."

"Next time you come," my mother says to the girls, "I make potstickers. And you can eat moon cakes for Chinese New Year's." She takes a tissue out of her sleeve and wipes Cleo's nose. She pats Tessa's knee. "Okay?"

"Okay!" they shout.

We all watch my mother walk up the steps to her front door, all of us waving the whole time. Once she's safe inside, we wave once more as she peers out the window, and then we take off.

"Whew!" Phil sighs. "Home." And I too sigh with relief. It's been a difficult weekend, but we survived.

"Mommy?" Tessa says at the first stop sign.

"Yes, sweetie."

"Mommy," she whispers. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Me too," says Cleo. "I have to go oo-oo real bad."

My mother is standing outside the house when we return.

"I tried to chase you, but you were too fast," she says as soon as I get out of the car. "And then I knew you would remember and come back." Tessa and Cleo are already racing up the stairs.

"Remember what?"

"Grand Auntie's farewell gift. Remember? Two three days ago I told you not to forget. Yesterday I said, Don't forget. You forgot?"

"No, no," I say. "Where is it?"

"In back, in the laundry room," she says. "Very heavy, though. Better ask your husband to carry it." I can just imagine what it must be: the old vinyl ottoman Grand Auntie used to rest her feet on, or perhaps the set of chip-proof Melmac dishes. As we wait for Phil to come back with the girls, my mother hands me a cup of tea, waving off my protests. "Already made. If you can't drink it, I only have to throw it away."

I take a few quick sips. "This is really good." And I mean it. I have never tasted tea like this. It is smooth, pungent, and instantly addicting.