I'm Not Chinese. Raymond M. Wong

to worry. We go.”

      I studied her. “You’re sure?”

      She nodded.

      I paused before saying, “Okay.”

      Number Seven announced it, and the people at our table came back to life, except for Mom, who stayed solemn and still, staring into her cup of cold tea.

      I picked up the teapot and poured some into her cup. She didn’t tap the table. Her eyes seemed distant and lost, and her shoulders slumped, like the stem of a plant, once strong and vibrant, now wilting and slowly dying inside.

      Dwelling 安頓

      Chapter 6

      At the end of the meal, the waiter brought a platter of fresh watermelon slices, cantaloupe spears, and orange segments for dessert. He signaled to my father, who motioned his hand in the manner of a king being served at his throne. Next came hot towels. And the check.

      My father snatched it from the table. Uncle Chun-Kwok, Hoy, and Number Seven called out, all gesturing toward the ticket. My father shook his head, and a battle ensued. The three of them tried to wrest the bill from him, but he pressed it to his chest like a precious photograph and brushed people away.

      When they relented, he put a wad of cash on the ticket tray. The waiter brought change. As my father got up to leave, he put some Hong Kong hundred-dollar notes on the table.

      Our entire party walked together through the restaurant and down the stairs to an expansive lobby with mirrored walls and towering pillars painted in ornate, floral patterns. The group gathered to bid each other good night. Then, my father led Uncle Chun-Kwok and his family, my mother, and me into the muggy night.

      A swarm of shoving pedestrians greeted us on the sidewalks of Wan Chai. Above rows of crowded shops, neon signs promoted businesses in Chinese characters. Many included English in smaller letters. Three- and four-story tenements, with rickety balconies, butted up against the still-open shops and restaurants. Lines of clothing hung from many of the dwellings; it struck me as an act of futility in this moist air.

      A few blocks later, we turned into the narrow entrance of a lobby grungier than Uncle Chun-Kwok’s. The eroded paint left cracked patches of mud-colored undercoatings, and in some sections, huge holes in the plaster appeared to have gone untended for years. It smelled like a moldy attic.

      Nobody guarded this lobby. We loaded into a cramped, creaky elevator. While my father and uncle conversed, I held my breath as the lift cables squealed to protest our combined weight. The elevator ascended in hitched agony before picking up speed. It jolted to a stop at the eleventh floor, and I let out a muffled “Phew” when the door opened.

      My father guided us through a tiny corridor to a heavy iron-railed screen. He unlocked it and slid it open to herd us into a tight entry hall where a dormlike facility presented a kitchen and doors farther down on both sides. A stooped, bare-chested, middle-aged man with a wrinkled belly emerged from one of the rooms. My father greeted him in a casual tone and introduced me, then my mom, who had slipped into silence again. The man mumbled a reply without acknowledging us, shuffled to the refrigerator, took out a beer bottle, and headed back to his room.

      My father spoke to me and pointed to the refrigerator. My mother said, “He ask if you want something to drink.”

      A communal refrigerator?

      I shook my head. My father went to a cabinet above the sink and took out a tumbler. He brought down one of the three bottles of Hennessy from the top of the refrigerator, and as he poured, my mom shook her head and said, “He drink a lot.”

      My father offered the cognac to my mother, who reacted as if he had extended a cup of battery acid. He asked Uncle Chun-Kwok and Aunt Poi Yee, but both declined.

      My father took a swallow and looked at us standing in his kitchen. He set the glass on the counter, hurried down the hall, opened a cupboard, and lifted out some short stools. It took two trips to carry back enough stools for all of us. He swept dust off the wooden surfaces with his hand before directing us to sit.

      I sat by the refrigerator in a kitchen a bit larger than my uncle’s, with just enough space to hold seven people. A gray, rectangular sink, the kind found in American garages, was piled full of dishes next to a rusty stove with two burners.

      I leaned toward my mom and said, “Does he own this place?”

      She asked my father, who shook his head. He got up, said something, and motioned for me to follow him down the hallway. We went into a room where a single bed, little more than an army cot, took up most of the area. At the foot of it, a chest of drawers supported a small TV. I saw loose change and an assortment of toiletry items scattered on the dresser and a pile of unlaundered shirts and pants strewn on the floor. A small window opposite the door provided a brick-wall view of the adjacent building.

      Hard to imagine anyone living in these confines. If my father resided here, how could he afford such an expensive dinner and all the gifts? A wave of sadness washed over me. I had been with my stepfather long enough to see how isolated a man could be even in a house full of people. Now, I could picture my father here by himself. After work, he would walk back to this dilapidated building, take that shaky elevator up, unlock the barricade, and reach for a bottle at the top of the refrigerator. He would get a glass from the cabinet, pour himself some cognac, and bring it to this room. Then he would undo his tie, toss it on the pile of clothes, switch on the TV, and settle into the cot with only his drink for company.

      I looked at my father and forced a smile.

      I thanked him for showing me his room.

      ***

      Afterwards, my father talked to Uncle Chun-Kwok, and my mother chatted with Aunt Poi Yee. Soon, Ming hopped over and launched himself with his chest atop my father’s knee. Sitting on a stool, the man wrapped his arm around his nephew and tugged on the boy’s mousy ears while my cousin shrieked in delight. Ming managed to work free from the hold and scooted behind his uncle to pull on his ears from behind. My father laughed and hung his head in a mock expression of pain.

      Watching them made me smile. As he clowned with Ming, my father appeared lighthearted, and my cousin seemed to relish the attention. Did my father ever do that with me? Did he ever encircle me in his long, wiry arms and lift me into the air, twirling me above his head the way he was spinning my cousin now? And did I holler out in unfettered bliss?

      How much time did my father spend with Ming? Did Uncle Chun-Kwok bring his family to visit often? I hoped so, because I preferred this picture of my father, engaged in frivolous play with a member of his family, to the image of him, somber and alone, in his room.

      Survival 生存

      Chapter 7

      Late in the evening at my uncle’s house I lay on the futon in the living room listening to the steady drone of the air conditioner. I thought about the dinner and my mother’s unusual demeanor. Did it make her uncomfortable to see my father? Could it have been the gifts? Her voice sounded so subdued when I asked if he knew about my writing. And the meal. How hard must it have been for her to watch her former husband order dish after dish of the finest foods for us, to see him fending off his family’s attempts to share the cost? Mom always scrimped. She would clip coupons, wait ’til the last day to pay bills, and buy at garage sales. My father probably spent more on our dinner than she had in eating out the whole year. The lavish feast made me uncomfortable, yet my father had invited his family to meet me, and he selected a gift that meant so much. Did he ask about me? Is that how he knew about my writing? Was he trying to make up for lost time? Or was it guilt at—

      A light flickered on in my mother’s room. The door squeaked open and she slipped through the living room to the kitchen. I heard the sound of the refrigerator opening, followed by the “fwip” of it shutting, the clinking of ice cubes, and the splash of liquid being poured.

      As she made her way back I whispered, “Mom?”

      She stopped and said in a hushed voice, “How come you not go sleep?”

      “I