This Old Man by Lois Ruby Page B

gathered outside his home. Old Man thinks that the Christian missionary called the people together in that very spot so Old Man would hear. Oh, I wish you could listen to him deliver the missionary’s speech the way he heard it that night. But I’ll translate.”
    â€œI’d appreciate that.”
    â€œThe missionary stood on top of a wagon—this is what the two remaining servants described to Old Man. And with his black Western hat, underneath the first electric streetlight in Sunkiang, he said, ‘In the Country of the Starry Flag, where I come from, everyone worships God and His Son. My honored friends, I give you my word as a gentleman, as an American, and as a Christian, that because my people worship the Father and the Son, there is no misery, no suffering, no oppression, no poverty, and no class conflict, no sin, no sin , my friends, in America across the sea!’”
    â€œThey actually believed that? That all Americans were Christians and never sinned?”
    â€œWell, why not? What else did they know? And then the minister stepped down from the wagon and began mingling with the people, all the time backing toward Old Man’s gates. Behind his back he handed a bundle to a servant at the gate and motioned that he should carry it to his young master. In the bundle was a Western suit, a wide-brimmed hat, and an American passport. Old Man left for Shanghai in the middle of the night and sailed the next day for America.”
    â€œWhat a shock it must have been when he realized the missionary had been lying.”
    â€œLying?”
    â€œWouldn’t you say he was lying?”
    â€œI would say he was telling the truth the way he understood it. Old Man has always told his own view of truth. But anyway, Old Man got here and found that the missionary’s view was wrong. In gratitude to the missionary, who after all did save Old Man’s life, you see, he became a Christian. But he wasn’t ever peacefully resigned. Do you understand him now?”
    I shook my head no, not yet.
    â€œIt takes a while,” Wing sighed. “I’ll wait.”
    And I thought of Wing, robed in silk, walking silently through the courtyards of his ancestral home in Sunkiang, reciting poems to himself, and waiting for me to come around.
    In Mr. Saxe’s waiting room, the minutes crept toward 4:45. Other kids sat there smoking, blowing bubbles, doing homework, playing with an old Rubik’s Snake. I was the only one who seemed to be watching the heavy hand of the clock drag itself from minute to minute. Finally the big black kid who saw Mr. Saxe ahead of me came strutting out of the office, tugging at his cuffs as though he’d just been fitted for a new suit. He was grinning; he’d obviously won a round with Mr. Saxe, who now stood at the door calling for me.
    He studied his clipboard for a minute or so, with his glasses way down on his nose. He wore a tan suit and a yellow shirt with blue ink dashes on the pocket. It was the first time I could remember seeing him in more than one color.
    â€œCome in, Greta,” he said, very solemnly. When we were in our assigned seats at his desk, he asked, “Have you had any contact with You-Know-Who?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œGood … good. And what’s happening with the job search?”
    â€œNothing.”
    He slid the pen off his ear and tapped it on the clipboard. “Where have you been looking?”
    â€œI haven’t tried.” I hoped he’d get mad and yell at me. I was in the mood for a good scrap. And no one had yelled at me in such a long time.
    He flipped the pages of his desk calendar and mumbled something I didn’t hear. I was thinking about the story Wing had told me.
    In 1913, when Old Man came to San Francisco, there were no Chinese women here. He was twenty years old and ready to marry, to continue the line of his ancestors. For five years he tried to bring over the woman who had been