Eat a Bowl of Tea. Louis Chu
The basement had a refreshing coolness. Not damp. Not muggy. None of the moldy smell of the unused cellar. After coffee, Ah Song spoke out, “Fifty dollars.”
Lee Gong poured the mah-jongs on the table, some of them face up, others face down.
“Fifty dollars,” echoed Tuck King, sitting down.
“Okay. Fifty.”
Leaving the coffee cups unwashed in the sink, Wah Gay joined the others at the mah-jong table. When he walked, he took big steps and his whole body seemed to swing with them. From the sink to the mah-jong table it took him but three steps. In his place on the table were strips of ivory chips which had been divided equally by the others. The mah-jongs now all faced down. Wah Gay added his outstretched hands to the pairs that were already busily shuffling the tiny ivory tiles around. The old army blanket muffled the noise of the blocks clucking against one another. Quickly, deftly, hands moved, setting up the mah-jongs.
Lee Gong picked a pair of pea-sized dice from among the chips and rattled them in his palm. The dice bounced off the mah-jongs and onto the table, where the adhesive characteristics of the blanket acted as a dragging agent and the dice rolled reluctantly to a stop.
“Six.”
Ah Song picked up the dice and threw them against the mah-jongs. “Ten.”
Next came Fat Man. He watched the dice roll lazily to a two and a one. “Wow your mother!”
The dice rattled once more, this time in the fat palm of Wah Gay. The cubes danced, smacked against each other, and bounced off the stacked-up tiles.
“Eight.”
“Ten has it.”
Ah Song hit the dice again. “Twelve.”
His right hand reached for the mah-jongs in front of him, counting to himself … two … four … six … eight … ten … twelve …
The mah-jongs thudded quietly against the blanketed table, all face up, in multi-colors of red, green, and blue. Someone let out a thirty thousand.
“Poeng powng!”
“So soon?”
“Wow your mother!”
III
One evening a few days later, the door to the Money Come club house opened and Ben Loy stepped in. No one at the mah-jong table bothered to look up to see who it was. They continued playing as if no one had come in at all. The young man paused at the door, trying to adjust his sight to the basement’s dinginess. His steps quickened until he stopped next to Wah Gay.
“Got a letter for you,” Ben Loy told his father. From his inside coat pocket he extracted a bluish air mail letter and placed it on the table by the proprietor’s elbow.
“Off today?” Wah Gay pocketed the letter, keeping his eyes on the mah-jongs.
“Yes,” the young man replied, and left.
The mah-jongs thudded and clucked against one another.
“Poeng powng!”
“Wow your mother. You are dead lucky.”
Wah Gay did not get to read the letter until early in the morning, after the mah-jong game had broken up. It was from his wife, Lau Shee, in Sunwei District, Kwangtung Province, China. Even before he opened the letter he was sure he knew what was in it. It was the same old story. Money. For what other subject could there be? His letters from China had been infrequent, partly because he neglected to write home.
To Wah Gay’s surprise, this letter mentioned a new matter: The return of their son Ben Loy to Sunwei to get married.
He began to read:
Dearly beloved husband … as if I’m talking to you face to face. More than twenty springs have passed since you left the village. Those who go overseas tend to forget home and remain abroad forever. I hope my husband is not one of those. Ben Loy is now a man. It is your responsibility to see that he comes home and makes himself a family. Many veterans are now returning to Sunwei to take a bride.… When you were home you spoke of acquiring a parcel of land between our vegetable garden and the well.… Hope your business will be successful enough to permit you to accompany Ben Loy home for a brief visit.…
Wah Gay lay alone and pensive on his folding bed, only an arm’s reach from the old-fashioned sink that stood against the wall near the doorway. Privacy from the rest of the room was afforded by a wooden partition which reached to the ceiling. A small oblong table stood at the foot of his bed. The mah-jong players had gone. He was all alone now. Each time he had received a letter from his wife he began to relive the past. He knew it was not right to let the old woman stay in the village by herself. He often wondered, during lonely moments, if perhaps some day he and Lau Shee would have a joyous reunion. His mind began to wander to the clouds.…
… Twenty some springs. It was in 1923 that he went back to China to get married … this is the year 1948. Twenty-five springs to be exact, since I left the village. Ben Loy will be twenty-four soon. Those who go back are always the same ones. Thrifty, stay-at-home laundrymen. Every three or four years they go back. Come back and work a few more years and they would be on their way again. The little old woman … she is a kind and good wife. Heh heh, I guess she now wants to become a mother-in-law. Women are like that. They all do. When they have a son eighteen or so, you can’t keep them from wanting to become mothers-in-law. After daughter-in-law there comes grandson. Heh heh, or they want a granddaughter. But they all prefer boys. Elder brother in Chicago has two grandsons. Women are like that. They want to become grandmothers.…
Wah Gay reread the letter again: Dearly beloved husband …
That night Wah Gay found it difficult to sleep.
IV
The following afternoon, when Wah Gay got up at one o’clock, Lee Gong was already there rattling the door knob trying to get in.
The proprietor unlocked the door. “So early today?”
“Yes. I couldn’t get any sleep last night.”
The two had been friends for many years. Up till ten years ago, they had been friends who rarely saw each other. Wang Wah Gay, after a short stay in New York, had gone out to Chicago, where he became co-owner of the New Canton Restaurant on North Clark Street with his elder brother Wang Wah Lim. Elder brother Lim was in charge of the kitchen; while little brother Gay, because of his greater knowledge of the English language, was a combination manager-cashier-waiter.
On the other hand, Lee Gong’s only contact with the restaurant business had been a short three months spent as a dishwasher in a Chinese restaurant on 59th Street. This was when he first had arrived in New York from China and the restaurant since then had changed hands many times.
“I didn’t get much sleep either,” said Wah Gay. “What was the matter with you? Why didn’t you get any sleep?”
“That … that young man who was here yesterday,” Lee Gong sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette, “I forgot to ask you his name.” He tried to make it sound casual.
“You mean the one who brought me the letter?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Lee Gong said impatiently.
“That was my little boy.” Wah Gay tried hard to keep from laughing out loud. “Come to think of it, it was the first time he has been here.”
Lee Gong knew that his friend Wah Gay’s son had arrived in this country a few years ago. Other than that he knew nothing. And he had had no reason to want to know more. In spite of the many letters he had been getting from his wife, Jung Shee, in China, urging him to find a suitable husband for their daughter Mei Oi, who was of a very marriageable age—just eighteen—Lee Gong had been of the opinion that his daughter was still young and there was plenty of time to find her a husband.