Clifford Garstang

 

THE SHRINE TO HIS ANCESTORS

 

 

 

Zhang Fengqi kneels before the low table in the corner. Left of center, he assembles a pyramid of oranges: a triangle of three and one nesting on top. He lifts and dusts with his sleeve a photograph of Maddie, his late wife and the mother of his two sons. In the picture, one he'd taken on their honeymoon trip to Chicago, her blond hair swirls around her face and she is hugging her jacket to keep it tight against the wind. Her smile is wide. He remembers the moment. They were happy, he deliriously so. Before the wedding, her mother had been angry that she was marrying Fengqi (not, he later realized, because he was Chinese, but because he was other—any other). And his parents were thousands of miles away in Shanghai, equally disappointed in his choice. But at that moment, clowning in front of the larger-than-life lions of the Art Institute, they didn't care what anyone else thought.

He replaces that picture on the table and picks up another. This one is of his mother, who died years ago. He believes the photograph was taken by his father on the Bund in Shanghai, but the blurry crowd in the background could have arisen anywhere in that dense city. She is stiffly posed, aware of the camera and forcing a smile; her gray-streaked hair is pulled back. A dull blue jacket in the old Party style makes her shoulders look wide and strong, which Fengqi knows they were not. There's also an older sepia print of his father and mother together in what might be their wedding finery. The last photograph, of his father, is more recent, taken after he'd moved here to D.C. from China just last year. Fengqi wishes he had chosen a different picture, because here his father looks nervous and uncomfortable, as if thinking he should have remained in Shanghai to finish his days among the bones of his forebears, but in all the other snapshots he appears drawn and sick, with the inevitable too clearly published on his tired face.

Fengqi lights the stick of incense, watches the drifting string of smoke rise, and inhales the scent of sandalwood that he will forever associate with his father. The shrine had been the old man's creation, his link to the ancient ways. Fengqi doesn't believe in such things. And yet, the memories abide here and they comfort him. He bows to the pictures, and rises.

From next door comes a steady hammering noise: the long-delayed renovation project in his neighbor's apartment. A gaping hole in the brick wall facing the alley, the origin of which Fengqi no longer remembers, is to be repaired and a balcony installed. The balcony seems unsafe for Susanna's baby, who will soon begin to crawl, but Fengqi understands (because six-year-old Simon has told him this) that Aloysius plans to sell the apartment and move, with Susanna and little Loyal, to a quieter, safer community. Which, Fengqi supposes, would be anywhere that Thomas—the father of the baby and the man with whom Susanna used to live, and who even now often sits in his parked car on M Street watching the building—is less likely to follow. And if he does follow, like the hungry ghost of Chinese legends, what then?

Claudia, their neighbor and, lately, the boys' sitter, enters with Simon and Wesley, who both run to Fengqi to show him what they have found on their walk. Simon presents him with a handful of leaves, ordinary maple and oak leaves that show signs of the changing season, still green but gold and red at the edges. Wesley clutches a dandelion that he holds under his chin, as Claudia has apparently instructed him.

"Yellow," says Wesley.

"It certainly is," says Fengqi.

"They both wanted to bring you presents," Claudia says.

Fengqi would be lost without Claudia, a former marketing consultant who has taken readily to childcare and now seems content only when she's around the boys. These past months, as his father sank out of reach, Fengqi had struggled to care for Simon and Wesley, just as he had after Maddie's car accident. When he'd married Jessica, second-generation Chinese-American with her own family ties to the old country, he thought she'd be able to help more, that they would face his father's death together and carry the boys through yet another loss. That wasn't why he married her; he just thought it would be so. But she's been distracted, busy with her work, and more uncomfortable with the boys, and they with her, than he'd hoped. He believes harmony will come in time, because that's what his father had taught him. He just doesn't know when.

Now there is high-pitched barking in the hallway and they all—Fengqi, Claudia, and the boys—go to investigate the commotion. Charles and Craig, from Number 1, reunited after a brief separation, are assembled there with their pug Sascha and a new dog they have named Mole, pronounced, Claudia has explained because it is a Spanish word Fengqi doesn't understand, "molay." The new dog is meant to keep Sascha company and to replace—if replacement is the right notion, which Fengqi knows it is not—their first pug who, Charles and Craig maintain, was dog-napped.

Shelley, Mr. Artoyen's buxom new wife, comes out of their apartment, shushing as she eases the door shut, because Sam, as he insists everyone call him now that he is just one of the residents instead of being the building's developer, is recovering from the heart attack he suffered while they were moving in. The painter, the wiry little man with the grey eyes, peeks out of his unit, releasing a wave of paint fumes that bites at Fengqi's nose. The man emerges, carrying a painting—awkwardly balanced on his hip, arms stretched to their limits because it is a long, wide canvas—that he lifts onto oversized hooks that have been empty for months. Aiding in this effort—mostly by judging from afar whether the canvas hangs level—is the tall sculptor from Number 3 whose ubiquitous cigarette dangles, unlit, from his mouth. The work looks familiar to Fengqi, as if the painter has recreated the piece that once hung in that spot, an indecipherable abstract roofline under an impossibly blue sky.

The chaos in the hallway Gallery reminds Fengqi of the day his mother-in-law—Maddie's mother—had arrived unannounced, the day of his first date with Jessica, the day his father remembered was the anniversary of the Nanjing Massacre. The day Fengqi realized that, no matter how much he planned, no matter how settled he thought he was, his life was an ocean of change over which he had no control.

And just as this thought occurs to him, he sees through the Gallery's glass doors a yellow cab pull up and Mrs. Martin emerge, as if his memory has conjured her appearance. He has forgotten that she was due, but regular visits are now her custom. Despite his marriage to Jessica, she has been coming each month since his father's funeral, whether because his death foretells her own and she wishes to make the most of the time remaining to her, or because she genuinely wants to help, he can't be sure. It hardly matters. The boys see her now, pull the door open and welcome her with noisy hugs and kisses, which she tolerates with grace that a year ago was unthinkable. She greets Fengqi by patting his forearm with a gloved hand.

The door to the building's front apartment opens and now, he thinks, the tableau will be complete, exactly as it was that day. But of course the young couple who once lived there is a couple no more and have left that apartment. It is the famous novelist who lives there now, the writer who, Jessica has told him, has a great book that is about to be published. At this time last year the man was in Paris, but his return to Nanking Mansion has sown more change, more chaos. Instead of the novelist emerging from the apartment, as Fengqi expects, however, it is Jessica who closes the door behind her.

Jessica and Mrs. Martin stand face to face. The two women are roughly the same height, but the similarity ends there. Jessica's black hair hangs straight to her shoulders and her dark complexion is, or to Fengqi's eye appears to be, without makeup. Mrs. Martin's hair is gray, rigidly swirled above her head like a crown, and her powdered face is pale. Jessica wears jeans and a t-shirt. Mrs. Martin is in a black suit. If there is resentment between them, neither has said so to Fengqi. And yet they do not speak. They simply nod.

And then the commotion in the Gallery dissipates. Charles and Craig and the dogs depart for their afternoon walk; the painter, his new work now hanging, returns to his studio, as does the sculptor. The hammering from the back of the building has ceased, along with the crying. And Claudia and Mrs. Martin herd Simon and Wesley into the Zhangs' apartment for a promised snack and a glimpse at the presents their grandmother has brought. Only Fengqi and Jessica remain.

"You were in the writer's apartment," Fengqi says. He has learned in his few months of marriage to Jessica that questions are often misinterpreted, and so he usually speaks to her in statements. He doesn't mean to accuse her. He only seeks confirmation of a fact.

"You saw me come out," Jessica says.

"He was there." Although in intonation this is also a statement, in his mind he is asking a question. He didn't see the writer. He doesn't know whether it is true.

"We were going over his manuscript one last time."

Jessica has told him that the book is done. When she quit her job at the bookstore—she said after her hysterectomy that she couldn't stand the way people looked at her there, a young woman who was no longer a woman—she began working with the writer to help him finish his book about atrocities. She has told Fengqi that part of the book involves China, especially the Japanese massacre of Chinese civilians at Nanjing in 1937. Fengqi knows about this incident, of course. His father survived it although he never talked about it. The massacre is part of his own family history and he doesn't understand why it should be put in a book of fiction.

"The book is finished." A question and a statement.

"Some last minute things," she says.

"He depends on you."

"He says he does, yes."

"Then it's good you are there to help him."

Fengqi has arranged for Claudia to watch the boys after school, because he had anticipated that Jessica would be back at work. And because Claudia needed the money—having lost her husband and her job at the same time, and very nearly losing her condo as a result. And because she got along well with the boys. It had seemed like an ideal situation, despite the expense. He's been thinking, though, that Jessica's recent moroseness might be due in part to her own unemployment and having few responsibilities around the house. He has been doing most of the cooking, he was caring for his father, he even cleaned. He doesn't blame her for not wanting to continue at the bookstore, although she had in the past claimed to enjoy it there. He has assured her that he fully understands, but the truth is that he does not. He has even tried to talk to her about this, but she deflects him. Now, though Claudia will be unhappy, he is thinking that Jessica should at least watch the children after school. Her work with the novelist is flexible. She has the time.

Jessica phones him at work. Simon's teacher has called the apartment and wants to meet with them as soon as possible. The next afternoon they go together to pick Simon up from school and they sit in his classroom, in the tiny schoolhouse chairs, with Mrs. Praisner standing above them like a looming, tweedy giant. Simon waits with a teacher's aide on the playground.

"I'm afraid he's been fighting," says Mrs. Praisner.

"That's not like Simon," Fengqi says.

"Lately, I'm afraid it is. He hit another boy because of something he said."

"Said what?"

"That Simon's mother is dead."

"As you know, she died in an accident, a little over a year ago."

"What he said exactly was, 'your mother's dead and she's not coming back.' And that's when Simon punched him."

The incident at the school gives Fengqi the idea that the time has come to move. Originally, Maddie had chosen this building in this neighborhood because she wanted to expose the boys to diversity and to the arts, and Fengqi had agreed, with some reluctance, that they would benefit. But he's no longer certain they were right. Although the neighborhood has seen improvement, it still seems dangerous, and, after Simon had admitted to Fengqi that a teenager had stolen his watch in the alley, the boys were no longer allowed to wander outside by themselves. It's no place for children, or at least not his children, and he worries about Jessica's safety, too. Isn't an attractive young woman vulnerable?

Without telling Jessica—he understands that this is a risk, that she would prefer to be consulted on a matter this important, but he believes she will enjoy the surprise—Fengqi begins looking at houses in the far suburb of Annandale with the help of a local Chinese-American realtor, second generation, like Jessica. There is a large population of Asians in the area, an abundance of Asian groceries and restaurants, plus public schools where Simon and Wesley won't feel out of place and Jessica can make friends. She'll come to love the area, and so will they.

He sees three that he thinks will work. Before he can discuss the move with Jessica, however, one of the houses is taken off the market and the second is sold. The realtor is blunt: he must act fast.

Fengqi is in Philadelphia for a conference at which he is presenting the data from a new report to be issued by his bureau in the Labor Department. It is the first time he has left the boys with Jessica overnight, and he didn't want to do it, but the conference is important. And she's their mother now; they must all grow to love each other, sooner rather than later. He tries not to worry.

He is waiting his turn to deliver his presentation when his cell phone rings. He's aware of the stares he draws as he tries to silence the phone and escape the auditorium. In the anteroom, he answers the call from Claudia. He listens, hears static on the line and something in Claudia's voice—it's pitched high, and, while she's normally calm and methodical, now she's speaking so fast it's hard for him to understand—alarms him. She's in the Emergency Room at G.W. Hospital with Wesley who's running a high fever. She doesn't know where Jessica is. She had knocked on the novelist's door because she often goes there to work on the man's book, but there was no answer. Claudia hadn't known what else to do.

Fengqi leaves the conference. There isn't time to tell anyone; he just gathers his belongings, checks out of the hotel, and goes.

While he's en route, Claudia calls with updates. Doctors suspect a virus. Still no word from Jessica. They're giving him antibiotics. Susanna from next door has agreed to watch Simon when he gets home from school. Wesley is resting, and they're going home. Fengqi changes course and heads for Nanking Mansion.

The apartment is quiet when Fengqi enters. His arms ache from his tight grip on the steering wheel and his leg is stiff from the steady pressure on the gas pedal as he sped down I-95. Jessica is sitting in the kitchen, sipping tea, lit only by the lamp over the stove.

"Wesley's okay," he says. He doesn't go to her. The overnight bag still in his hand anchors him.

"Yes. He's fine. Sleeping"

"I was worried."

"He's fine now."

"Claudia couldn't find you."

"I was working."

"I was worried."

"I'm sorry," Jessica says. "But everything's fine."

"No," Fengqi says. "I don't think it is." He hears that his voice is too loud, that anger, an emotion he seldom expresses, is burning in him, like Wesley's fever. He turns away.

They go out to eat at their favorite restaurant, Mario's, leaving the boys with Claudia. Since the scare of Wesley's fever, which passed as quickly as it arose, they've spoken little, and Fengqi thinks they need to take this break. He wishes they could go away somewhere, just the two of them, on a kind of honeymoon, like the trip he and Maddie took to Chicago, but that's out of the question because of work and the boys. So a night out will have to do, for now. Jessica is staring at the menu and doesn't answer when the waiter asks for their orders, but when Fengqi chooses the shrimp scampi she tells the waiter she'll have the same. Fengqi looks at her. She never eats shrimp. She never orders the same thing he does.

He says, "There's something I wanted to talk about," at the same time that she says "We need to talk." He smiles at the coincidence, but she doesn't.

"You first," she says. She sips her water.

"All right. I thought we could save a little money if you watched the boys after school, instead of paying Claudia to do it." He feels badly for Claudia, who needs the money they pay her, but he'll help her find something else that will make better use of her experience in advertising.

Jessica nods, still holding the water glass to her lips, but Fengqi has the impression that she isn't listening.

"There's something else," he says.

And then he tells her he's made an offer on a house.

"Hao ma?" Is that okay? Since his father's death, Jessica has stopped studying Chinese. He wants her to keep using it, for the boys' sakes, and so for simple expressions he sometimes slips into Mandarin. "Hao bu hao?" Okay or not?

She nods again. They sit silently while the food is set in front of them. Jessica stares at her shrimp.

"The thing is, now that the book is done," she says, "Nathan is moving back to Paris."

For a moment, Fengqi is pleased with the implication of Nathan's impending move and he smiles—one less thing to worry about, nothing to interfere with their move to the suburbs, and with that distraction out of the way Jessica will have plenty of time for the boys—until he realizes, as if he is hearing the delayed report of a distant gun, what is coming next.

"He's asked me to go with him."

Has he heard right? The restaurant is loud. Did he misunderstand?

"Why would he ask this of you? The work is done, you said. For the next book he can find another . . . helper."

"It's more than that, Feng."

Wind. He knows she's trying to be gentle. She calls him that in quiet times, when she clings to him. And now what he had not wanted to see becomes clear.

"I'm not blind," he says, although that's exactly what he's been. "I've seen you with him. It isn't so hard to figure out what he is to you. But I don't understand why. Why would you do this to us?"

"I'm sorry," she says. "But I have to."

"Just come with me to see the house."

"I'm sorry."

He stands in an autumn shadow, the new house looming behind him. The brick wall that surrounds the garden reminds him of the walled courtyard of the old houses in China, the kind that are now mostly gone. In the corner, in a tangle of ivy, is a mossy bench. He brushes away leaves and acorns, and sits. It is the kind of garden his father would have loved, where he could grow vegetables as in those long ago days. He might have built a small pond, a waterfall. Fengqi pictures a bird-feeder in the shape of a pagoda. His father could sit on the bench and watch colorful carp in the pond, visited by finches and sparrows, and allow himself to be transported to a time before everything changed, before the sea rose and covered the earth, before the wars, before flying here into the nothingness that his life became. There is room enough in this house for the boys, for Claudia if she will come to help, for Maddie's mother when she chooses to visit. And there is more than enough room for the ghost of Maddie herself, and his father, and all of his ancestors, wherever they are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The story is part of a novel in stories, WHAT THE ZHANG BOYS KNOW, slated for publication by Press 53 in the fall of 2012. Other stories in the book have appeared or are forthcoming in Blackbird, Tampa Review, New South, Cream City Review, The Wisconsin Review, and FRiGG. 

My short story collection, IN AN UNCHARTED COUNTRY, was published in September 2009 by Press 53 and won both a Gold Medal (IPPY) from Independent Publisher and the Maria Thomas Fiction Award. I hold a J.D. and an M.A. in English from Indiana University and an M.F.A. in Fiction from Queens University of Charlotte. A Fellow of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, I also received a Walter E. Dakin Fellowship to the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. I’m the Editor of Prime Number Magazine.