Chapter 27 Jason #2
They reached the medical offices and took the elevator to the third floor.
Jason sat beside his mother as a nurse recorded her vitals.
Dr. Zhen, the young heart specialist, spoke Mandarin but no Cantonese, and they all agreed it was best if they just communicated in English.
Dr. Zhen said she wanted to up the dose on the A-fib medication, and that his mother ought to come for another appointment in a month.
From all this it seemed to Jason, though Dr. Zhen didn’t say so directly, that his mother was declining.
When he thought of her dying, he felt wrapped in a silence that was deeper than the quiet he’d grown used to in the brownstone.
Perhaps he should have been overcome with guilt, that long neglected but innate sense of filial piety finally welling up in him, so that at last, for her sake, he’d leave his life as a writer and become a lawyer, and renounce salads, and visit his sisters more often. But the feeling wasn’t guilt.
What he was experiencing was something more like the anticipation of displacement, for even though he was so safe, so secure, in the brownstone that he owned with Rachel’s parents’ money, his mother’s death would be yet another disappearance, the hardest of all.
With her, it felt as if the world from which he came—a world of homegrown bean sprouts and rooftop pigeon cages, of hawthorn candy and Hostess fruit pies, of backyard barbecues and blackouts—would vanish entirely.
When they returned to her apartment, he helped her move to the couch, where she promptly fell asleep. Jason lifted his mother’s feet so she could lie back properly, then repositioned her head.
“Oh, I go to sleep?” she said, laughing at herself.
“Don’t worry—take a nap. I’ll wash the dishes,” he said, covering her with a blanket.
Within a few minutes, his mother’s mouth was hanging open, and she was snoring at regular intervals.
This was just as he had hoped.
He crept to the cupboard by the window. It was an old wood cabinet with clunky shelves and no sliders. With a little tug to the left and a little to the right, he wiggled the bottom drawer until he’d opened it just wide enough to peek at its contents.
He withdrew a folder. Riffling through the papers, he found a yellowing rectangle from the Immigration and Naturalization Service.
Name: Dun Ho Wong Occupation: Student Age: Eight Years
Origin: Canton, China Destination: New York City, New York
Physical marks and peculiarities: Mole outer corner right eyebrow
Next, he discovered his father’s discharge papers from the U.S. Navy, the regal script rendered so heavily that it was now no more than a smear of black ink. And he noticed his grandpa’s death certificate: 1903. Retired. Restaurant Owner. Suicide.
He reached the change-of-name form next.
At a special term, part two, of the Civil Court of the City of New York, at the Court House thereof, 111 Centre Street, Borough of Manhattan, on Seventeenth of June, in the Year Nineteen Sixty-Six,
In the Matter of Application of DUN HO WONG and FOON WAH WONG on behalf of themselves and their children for leave to change their names to RICHARD DUN HO CHIN, FOON WAH CHIN, JENNIFER CHIN, JULIE CHIN, JACKIE CHIN, JASON CHIN…
For years, it seemed, his family had wrapped and unwrapped itself in disguise.
Why, for instance, had his father bought the house on Livonia using the name Richard Wong—at least according to that deed Sadie had obtained—when one year prior, he’d changed his name to Chin?
Had he forgotten his new name? Was he trying to hide himself still?
Jason continued to search. He found a bankruptcy filing, a utility bill, a mortgage note. He opened boxes, poured out folders, and closed the window so the drilling outside wouldn’t disturb his mother’s sleep. Then he noticed a folder marked “78 Livonia”—within it, a flaking piece of paper.
THIS INDENTURE, made the ninth day of August, nineteen hundred and seventy-eight
BETWEEN
WONG DUN HO, also known as RICHARD WONG, residing at 5534 East 52th Street, Brooklyn, New York
Party of the first part, and
78 Livonia Avenue LLC
Party of the second part
Witnesseth, that the party of the first part, in consideration of ten thousand dollars and other valuable considerations paid by the party of the second part, does hereby grant and release unto the party of the second part…
A record of the building’s sale, Jason realized.
And there was something else in the folder: a handwritten petition from about two years earlier—January 25, 1976.
To Richard Wong:
We are writing to inform you that the tenants of 78 and 80 Livonia Avenue will not pay rent until The Demands, detailed below, are completely addressed.
For years we have endured egregious conditions in violation of the city’s housing code law, and our requests for repairs have been repeatedly ignored.
It is our right to live in decent conditions, and your responsibility to ensure them.
Until then, we will save our rent in an escrow account.
THE DEMANDS
Full restoration of all cracked and caving ceilings, including the 78 Livonia 2L Bathroom, 78 Livonia 1R Kitchen, 80 Livonia Avenue 3L Bedroom, and 80 Livonia 3R Kitchen.
Extermination of rats and roaches in both buildings.
Removal of mold on ceilings/window frames in the bathrooms on all floors of both buildings.
Replacement of malfunctioning boilers and radiators.
We make these demands from necessity and because they are our human rights.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights adopted by the United Nations states that “Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care and the right to security.”
We await your response and action.
Cosigned:
Lina Rodriguez Armstrong
Harry Eugene
John Coleman
Sam Jenkins
Sylvia Jenkins
Patricia Taylor
Ria Quincy
Evelina Garcia
Louise Rivera
Paul Laguerre
Benoit Laguerre
Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds
Jason held the papers to his chest, then stuck them back in the folder and tucked the folder in his bag to bring to Sadie. This was the most concrete evidence yet. His father had been unable to take care of the building, as shown by the tenants’ letter. And so he had sold it.
But where were the address books?
Jason wondered if he was looking in the wrong drawer. Maybe his mother still kept her address books within close reach, by the dial-up phone, in the coffee table by the couch. He crept back over to her, holding his breath as she continued to snore.
In the coffee-table drawer, he found three timeworn address books. Skimming through each of them, he recognized some of the names—his dad’s old friend Alan Friedman, for instance, and the Hoffmans from Kings Highway.
Then, finally, the one he had been looking for: his father’s broker.
718-599-2939.
This was who Sadie needed to talk to.