Chapter Eight #2
Joan had recently learned how to drive, in a little maroon BMW that had once belonged to Bill.
She had all the same enthusiasm for driving as a teenager in fresh possession of a learner’s permit, and the morning of the opera, Joan headed to San Francisco.
She wished to arrive with plenty of time to first visit Chinatown: the herbal shop where she bought tea and dried mushrooms, the bakery, the jewelry store.
When she parked and spotted those familiar apartment balconies on Kearny Street (the stalks of green onion in planters, the stiff movement of sun-dried undershirts on hangers), she was brought nearly to tears.
What a relief to stroll alongside the old men pushing shopping carts, children chasing pigeons and throwing poppers—for Joan was rarely with other Chinese people anymore.
The only exception was Betty Wong, a casual acquaintance of Bill’s, but the woman was never friendly to Joan.
Sure, Betty kept her hair dyed jet black and wore embroidered silk coats and brilliant jade bangles whenever she entertained— but she returned Joan’s conversation with the curtest of replies, and the only time Joan ever really saw Betty smile was when she was with white people.
After a bowl of shrimp noodle soup at Harbor Place, Joan drove to a parking garage she had mapped near the opera house.
She was still early and so browsed the neighborhood.
There was a nut shop, a small dark place that reminded her of Chinatown, and she went in and purchased a bag of salted cashews for Bill.
She envisioned her return, how she’d tell him what a nice time she’d had with Sue and the rest of the women, presenting him with the cashews at the end.
Just thought of you , she’d remark. It sounded like something Sue would say, one of those lines like “my mister” or going “on holiday.”
Joan dropped off the nuts in her car. The garage was underground, beneath a large lawn with an industrial-looking playground. As Joan ascended back up the stairs, she heard the laughter of children.
Ah, what a wonderful day to be in San Francisco.
The sky was clear and bright. The locals, unaccustomed to sunshine in November, had responded with spontaneous urgency; there was a group of men in suits, jackets open, chatting and drinking beers.
Next to them a knot of teenagers had stripped to bras and shorts.
Joan was dressed for the opera, in a long navy dress and cardigan, and she moved to a shaded spot under a tree.
She yawned. The sun caressed her shoulders.
The park up here was surprisingly large, with rows of cypress trees and soft grass.
The greenery reminded her of Wen-Bao—on weekends her father had liked to visit such parks, though after a short walk he often spent the remainder of his time dozing on benches.
If there was only a lawn, Wen-Bao would stretch out a blanket or just lie directly on the grass.
Sometimes, if he were already asleep, Joan would sit next to him and gently press her palm to his back.
She yawned again.
Her cardigan, neatly folded, was a perfectly serviceable, if somewhat flat little pillow.
She lay on the grass. The sun swept her face, and the heat again brought to mind Taiwan, the humidity each afternoon as she walked home from school.
When Joan arrived at the apartment, she’d sometimes encounter her grandmother tottering in her bound feet.
Joan had hated the sight of the feet, which were deformed and even in shoes emitted a foul scent.
Contained within her memories, however, the feet were no longer grotesque; Joan couldn’t recall the stench, only how her grandmother would slouch forward in the early evening as if her bones were made of jelly.
Those peaceful dinners when nothing happened, when Mei was happy and Wen-Bao home, the long table of rosewood, a bowl of rice before her…
“Joan?”
Joan opened her eyes. Sue Strong stood over her.
“I thought it was you,” Sue said. In her stiff pastel dress and matching pumps, she resembled a sturdy pink tent. She shielded her eyes with a hand. “I always park here. Did you take the stairs? They absolutely reek of urine.”
“I didn’t notice.” Joan’s mouth was furry from sleep. Had she missed the opera? But no, the sun was still overhead.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?” Sue asked. She moved closer, into the shade.
“I was taking a nap.”
“Ah!” Sue fluttered a hand. “I know. It’s exhausting, honestly.”
What was exhausting? Perhaps Sue meant the drive—when there was traffic, it could be very tiring indeed. Joan floundered for what to say next. “ Tosca .”
Sue looked startled. “What?”
“The opera. I’ve been looking forward to it. I looked up the plot at the library.” Joan had expected an easy story, something light and airy like a ballerina’s costume, and thus had been taken aback by all the murder and suicide.
“Right.” Sue straightened. “Well, we ladies did make a vow to attend more opera and ballet. We do the fundraising and have fun choosing our outfits, but who of us actually pays attention once we’re there? The arts are important, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Should we go?” Joan picked up her bag and attempted to discreetly unfurl her cardigan. “We can make sure we pick good seats.”
“The seats are assigned.” Sue looked at her strangely. “I’m actually on my way to meet Dina. We have a committee meeting.”
“Oh.” Joan flushed and looked at her watch. They had another ninety minutes.
“But the seats will be good,” Sue said. “Very good. It will be a lovely program.”
“So lovely,” Joan repeated. She waited until Sue left and then arranged her cardigan back on the grass. She lay down and stared at the sky, the laughter and screams washing over her.
“I hear you fell asleep on a bench,” Bill said the following week. He had just returned from poker at Randy Strong’s.
Joan was on her knees in the kitchen, examining the underside of the sink for the source of a ghostly drip which had taunted her since morning. “It wasn’t a bench,” Joan said. She came out from under the cabinet. “It was a nice spot of grass. And I used my sweater as a pillow.”
“You don’t have to go to the opera just to go, you know.” Bill sat next to her on the ground. “I could have told you it was boring.”
“It wasn’t the opera that was boring.”
“Now, now.” Bill laughed. But he usually liked it when she was a little disagreeable, so long as it wasn’t directed at him. “The part I don’t get is the napping. Why sleep at a park? You do know the area is full of vagrants? You could have been robbed.”
“I was tired,” Joan said simply. Although it wasn’t so simple. Her period was a month late, though she hadn’t yet told Bill. After all, it could be anything: weather, sleep, stress, diet.
Although Joan suspected.
Would Bill be happy if she were pregnant?
He’d never explicitly stated that he didn’t want more children, or rather, he’d hinted at it but then done nothing in the way of trying not to have more, practically speaking.
A child required parenting: good parenting, ideally.
And what did Joan know about good parents?
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Bill scooted closer. “I’m not working, so let’s spend the afternoon. Something fun.”
Fun, Joan repeated in her head. It was a cute word, so snappy and American.
He clapped his hands. “I’ve got it. Mini golf. Have you been?”
“No.”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing like regular golf. You shoot the ball through dragon heads and castles.”
“I hope it’s easier than ice-skating.” Bill had taken her last month to a rink in Cupertino. She had slipped and fallen endlessly while handsome American couples glided past.
“You need to rest more.” Bill kneaded her neck, his thumb moving up and down.
“I rest enough.”
“I can feel how stressed you are.”
“You’re older,” Joan said shortly. “So you need rest even more than I do.”
“Not too old, I hope,” Bill said, curling her closer to him. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder.
The next morning, Joan woke later than usual. She moved lazily under the sheets, the soprano’s sweeping, wistful aria from Tosca stuck in her head. After she dressed, she went to the kitchen and filled the kettle.
“I thought I wouldn’t wake you,” Bill said. “You looked so peaceful. A very beautiful sloth.”
“I was dreaming about a song,” Joan said.
“Really? Sing it.”
“I can’t. I don’t know the words.”
“We should go to a concert sometime. Trevor and Dina are always asking.”
On the stove, the kettle began to whistle, and Bill retrieved her favorite teacup from the cabinet. “What?” Bill asked when he turned. Joan was staring at him.
“Sometimes I wake up,” Joan said, “and I can’t believe this all began with listening to that man scream at Stanford. I can’t believe that’s what led to this life, right here with you.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Bill agreed. “But isn’t it nice all of it happened?”
As she sliced an apple, Joan agreed that it was very nice—and in another month she had confirmation of her pregnancy.
Bill’s reaction wasn’t exactly as Joan had hoped: his congratulations was stammered, and for a while she detected a slight frostiness, nothing she could specifically name, but it was in the air all the same.
She wondered if he’d expected her to spend the rest of her years doing just as he’d wanted, all her decisions tilted toward his implicit preference.
It was a good question, really, but Joan never asked.