Read Online China Dog by Judy Fong Bates - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judy Fong Bates
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with her brother-in-law, whoconsidered her another mouth to feed. The meagre earnings she brought home from her job as a clerk in a government office were received with contempt. A marriage between May-Yen and Mun Lek provided the perfect solution for both.
Just before Su’s birth in Hong Kong, her father had returned to Canada. In the small town of Sydney, he’d opened another hand laundry where he worked alone. There were two Chinese establishments in the town – the hand laundry and a restaurant. May-Yen was the first Chinese woman in the town, and Su was the first Chinese child.
Work in the laundry started the day after their arrival. For the next fifteen years, until Mun Lek’s death, May-Yen worked by his side. Su watched her mother sort clothing, mend collars and cuffs, replace buttons, darn socks – the belongings of strangers, their acrid body odours lingering on their clothes. At times May-Yen wondered out loud, “My God! Same watery eyes, same big noses.
All-ah
same to me!”
On wash days, May-Yen helped her husband tame the wooden-barrel machine that agitated the clothes until they were clean. She pulled clothes out of wooden tubs of icy rinse water and cranked them by hand through wringers. In the summer, the clothes were hung outside on lines to dry. Her single vanity had been her finely pored, pale, ivory skin. Each summer she watched in silent surrender as her skin turned brown and the faint lines on her face grew deeper and deeper.
Every evening after supper, she fed sheets, tea towels, and tablecloths through ironing rollers, transforming limp, wrinkled bits of cloth into yards of smooth, sleek fabric thatlooked like full-blown sails on a ship. She also produced three meals a day. Lunch and supper were unthinkable without hot homemade soup. Her husband rarely spoke, except to give orders. Their meals were eaten in silence.
May-Yen resigned herself to her new life. But sometimes she looked at her daughter, her eyes pools of unfathomable sadness. “There was a time, back in China, when I used to go to movies, maybe play
mah jong
in the evenings. There was a time when I had friends.”
Fifteen years later, when her husband died, May-Yen moved in with Mun Lek’s son, Kenny, and his family. After Mun Lek’s funeral, Su stayed at the laundry with her mother for a week. She helped her mother pack her belongings into the tan leather suitcase that May-Yen had brought from Hong Kong and into an assortment of brown cardboard boxes. At the end of the week Kenny drove down from Urquhart in his blue station wagon. Su caught a Toronto bus back to university.
There was no choice for May-Yen but to move in with Kenny and his family, into a small bedroom in the apartment above the Lucky Star. From the beginning, her bedroom was stacked to the ceiling with boxes full of ancient belongings. The bed was pushed flush to the wall and more boxes were crammed underneath.
When May-Yen walked through the wooden swinging door into the restaurant kitchen after her first night in her new home, her stepson pointed at a bushel of unpeeled potatoes.Every day there were baskets of carrots, celery, and onions waiting to be peeled, washed, and chopped. Every day there were stacks of plates that needed scraping and pots that need scrubbing.
Two days after bringing her mother to Toronto, Su sat next to her in the oncologist’s waiting room at Toronto General Hospital. The receptionist had a look of impatience and amusement as she watched May-Yen fumble with her gnarled, arthritic fingers, trying to remove her hospital card from a clear plastic bag containing several identity cards, with each card again individually wrapped in another clear plastic bag and bundled with an elastic. She refused all help. Su remembered once suggesting to her mother that she buy a wallet with slots for her cards. May-Yen had indignantly responded, “What do I need a wallet for? You should be like me and sew pockets inside your jackets and pants.
Just before Su’s birth in Hong Kong, her father had returned to Canada. In the small town of Sydney, he’d opened another hand laundry where he worked alone. There were two Chinese establishments in the town – the hand laundry and a restaurant. May-Yen was the first Chinese woman in the town, and Su was the first Chinese child.
Work in the laundry started the day after their arrival. For the next fifteen years, until Mun Lek’s death, May-Yen worked by his side. Su watched her mother sort clothing, mend collars and cuffs, replace buttons, darn socks – the belongings of strangers, their acrid body odours lingering on their clothes. At times May-Yen wondered out loud, “My God! Same watery eyes, same big noses.
All-ah
same to me!”
On wash days, May-Yen helped her husband tame the wooden-barrel machine that agitated the clothes until they were clean. She pulled clothes out of wooden tubs of icy rinse water and cranked them by hand through wringers. In the summer, the clothes were hung outside on lines to dry. Her single vanity had been her finely pored, pale, ivory skin. Each summer she watched in silent surrender as her skin turned brown and the faint lines on her face grew deeper and deeper.
Every evening after supper, she fed sheets, tea towels, and tablecloths through ironing rollers, transforming limp, wrinkled bits of cloth into yards of smooth, sleek fabric thatlooked like full-blown sails on a ship. She also produced three meals a day. Lunch and supper were unthinkable without hot homemade soup. Her husband rarely spoke, except to give orders. Their meals were eaten in silence.
May-Yen resigned herself to her new life. But sometimes she looked at her daughter, her eyes pools of unfathomable sadness. “There was a time, back in China, when I used to go to movies, maybe play
mah jong
in the evenings. There was a time when I had friends.”
Fifteen years later, when her husband died, May-Yen moved in with Mun Lek’s son, Kenny, and his family. After Mun Lek’s funeral, Su stayed at the laundry with her mother for a week. She helped her mother pack her belongings into the tan leather suitcase that May-Yen had brought from Hong Kong and into an assortment of brown cardboard boxes. At the end of the week Kenny drove down from Urquhart in his blue station wagon. Su caught a Toronto bus back to university.
There was no choice for May-Yen but to move in with Kenny and his family, into a small bedroom in the apartment above the Lucky Star. From the beginning, her bedroom was stacked to the ceiling with boxes full of ancient belongings. The bed was pushed flush to the wall and more boxes were crammed underneath.
When May-Yen walked through the wooden swinging door into the restaurant kitchen after her first night in her new home, her stepson pointed at a bushel of unpeeled potatoes.Every day there were baskets of carrots, celery, and onions waiting to be peeled, washed, and chopped. Every day there were stacks of plates that needed scraping and pots that need scrubbing.
Two days after bringing her mother to Toronto, Su sat next to her in the oncologist’s waiting room at Toronto General Hospital. The receptionist had a look of impatience and amusement as she watched May-Yen fumble with her gnarled, arthritic fingers, trying to remove her hospital card from a clear plastic bag containing several identity cards, with each card again individually wrapped in another clear plastic bag and bundled with an elastic. She refused all help. Su remembered once suggesting to her mother that she buy a wallet with slots for her cards. May-Yen had indignantly responded, “What do I need a wallet for? You should be like me and sew pockets inside your jackets and pants.
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