For Today I Am a Boy by Kim Fu Page B

Chinese seamstress, almond eyes squinting more and more, her vision vanishing at the point of her needle. Maybe my father wanted to push his tongue against the sounds of the old language; maybe she was silent and docile, scrawny from the voyage, still wearing a stash of incongruous peasant clothes that looked like linen pajamas. My mother before my father had begun his project of westernization, my father the conqueror.
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    Years later, visiting home, I went to see the bar where Bonnie had given her number to old men. It was open at ten in the morning, dank and empty. I saw Mrs. Becker’s husband sleeping on his arms in a booth. The bartender didn’t seem to care. I sat at Mr. Becker’s table and we talked about his wife. I knew she’d died in an accident soon after we met her and that Mr. Becker was the one who had found her. Neither my mother nor the kids at school could elaborate any further—an accident, a tragic accident on our street.
    â€œMy bus was never late,” he said. “I was home every day at seven forty. On the dot.”
    He told me that Mrs. Becker liked to eat sour candies crusted with sugar by pressing them to the top of her mouth. She didn’t like pain in general, he said drunkenly, least of all in bed—just that, crystals cutting in and wearing away her soft palate, often doing it until she bled. He could taste it when he kissed her. “Like sucking on pennies,” he said.
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    Another Thursday. I walked home from school, anticipating an empty house. As I rounded the corner, I saw Mrs. Becker standing in her yard and watching the sprinkler spit its twitching lines like it needed supervision. Sprinklers were an odd sight in our neighborhood of scraggly trees and poisoned soil. She spotted me as I tried to run past. “Hello there!”
    â€œHi.”
    She held out her hand. I shook it. Her white glove was dry and cool. “I’m Mrs. Becker. You live in the house at the end of the road, right?”
    â€œYes.” In full sunlight, she looked even paler. The light shone through her skin to the blue veins along her forehead.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œPeter.”
    â€œIt’s nice to meet you, Peter. Can I ask you a question?”
    â€œSure, I guess.”
    â€œWhat does your mother like?” Mrs. Becker clasped her hands together in a position of prayer. “I feel terrible about the other day. I’d like to get her a gift.” I didn’t understand what she felt terrible about; my mother was the one who’d been rude. “Flowers? Does she like flowers? Apricot cake? I make a great apricot cake.”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe.”
    â€œI’ll bring by an apricot cake.”
    The sprinkler hit her feet and ankles each time it went around, wetting her shoes and the hem of her dress. She didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œOkay, sure. Thanks, Mrs. Becker.”
    â€œYour mother seems like such a nice lady. I want us to be friends. Does she like to go to the movies? Play cards?” Her smile looked unstable. The structure of her face couldn’t sustain the weight.
    â€œShe likes to play mahjong,” I said.
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t know that one.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. Becker, but I have to go.”
    â€œOh! Sure. Is she waiting for you?” She looked in the direction of our house as if expecting to see my mother standing there.
    â€œNo, but . . .” I searched for something to say. “It’s my turn to clean the house.”
    â€œDo you need any help? I have an hour or two. I could come over and help you.”
    I balked. “No, thank you.”
    â€œI’m sorry. That was inappropriate of me. I’m so sorry.”
    â€œI’ve gotta go,” I repeated. I ran down the street.
    Inside our dim house, I gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the light. Standing in the kitchen, I took off my pants, underwear, and shirt and pulled