Read Online Typical American by Gish Jen - Free Book Online Page A

that. "Typical American no-good," Ralph would say; Theresa, "typical American don't-know-how-to-get-along"; and Helen, wistfully, "typical American just-want-to-be-the-center-of-things." They were sure, of course, that they wouldn't "become wild" here in America, where there was "no one to control them." Yet they were more sure still as they shook their heads over a clerk who short-changed them ("typical American no-morals!"). Over a neighbor who snapped his key in his door lock ("typical American use-brute-force!"). Or what about that other neighbor's kid, who claimed the opposite of a Democrat to be a pelican? ("Peckin?" said Ralph. "A kind of bird," explained Theresa; then he laughed too. "Typical American just-dumb!") They discovered stories everywhere. A boy who stole his father's only pair of pants. A mother who kept her daughter on a leash. An animal trainer who, in a fit of anger, bit his wife's ear off.
    "With his mouth?" Ralph couldn't believe it.
    But it was true. Helen had read it in the American newspaper, which was honest enough to admit, one day, that they were right. Americans had degenerated since the War. As for why, that was complicated. Sitting in the green room that was the living room and Theresa's bedroom both, she read the whole article aloud. Ralph and Theresa listened carefully.

    "That's what we were saying/' Ralph commented finally. He looked to Theresa, who nodded.
    "Americans want to loosen up now, have a good time," she said. "They're sick of rationing,"
    "Would you read it again?"
    Helen would — glad, she supposed, to have in the family at least this one rickety seat. And sure enough, there it was once more, evidence of how smart they were. Imagine that — that they could see, in a foreign country, what was what! Above them, the ceiling light dropped haloes in their hair as they listened on. Everything, they heard, was going to be okay.
    The only question was why Ralph lay awake whole nights, listening to Helen asleep in the next bed. It wasn't just the strangeness of rooming with a woman which kept him up with the streedights. Not anymore; he was already used to the company, or almost used to it — to the way she dressed in the morning, under the covers, reaching to the bureau with a lithe, bare arm; to the way she and his sister sometimes talked to each other through the door. He was more or less used to saying wife, to being called husband, whatever that meant. He was even used to sex, which he no longer wanted twice a day. Once was enough; already the fumbling had become memory. An ease had set in. He'd cross to her bed; a touch, and she'd turn over. A few touches more; buttons; then quiet, quiet, listening to be sure they weren't waking his sister. It was easy. Quiet. Quiet.
    But Helen never said anything, or even seemed about to make a noise. She was so quiet he worried, not just in bed together, but all night, in their own beds, like this. Was there something the matter with her? She hid things, he'd discovered — keys, batteries, letters. She kept magazines under her mattress. What else might she be keeping from him? Maybe an illness, he thought, listening hard. For she didn't just breathe; she inhaled, then stopped, then expelled the air in a little burst. Squinting up at the ring-stained ceiling, he tried to make the sound she was

    making. A slight popping, as if she had been holding her breath. Or as if there were some obstruction ... where? In her chest? No, in her throat. Right at the base of his own throat he thought he could feel a little door that might stick. He envisioned visits to the doctor. Cancer. An operation. Where would she want to be buried? He didn't even know. Or worse, he pictured a wife with no throat. How would she breathe? How would she eat? He swallowed. Would he have married her if he had known this would happen? And should he have married her if he wouldn't have?
    He wished there were someone to ask, someone who could tell him how much love was the proper