Last of Her Name Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Mimi Lok. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States

  222120194321

  Published by Kaya Press

  kaya.com

  Distributed by D.A.P. / Distributed Art Publishers

  artbook.com / (800) 388-BOOK

  ISBN: 978-1-885030-61-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941897

  Cover artwork by Seonna Hong

  Cover and book design by Sunra Thompson

  Earlier versions of these stories have appeared in the following publications:

  McSweeney’s Quarterly, Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry, and Hyphen.

  This publication is made possible by support from the USC Dana and David Dornsife College of Arts, Letters, and Sciences; the Shinso Ito Center for Japanese Religions and Culture; and the USC Department of American Studies and Ethnicity. Special thanks to the Choi Chang Soo Foundation for their support of this work.

  Additional funding was provided by the generous contributions of: Christine Alberto, Tiffany Babb, Manibha Banerjee, Tom and Lily So Beischer, Piyali Bhattacharya, Anelise Chen, Anita Chen, Lisa Chen, Floyd Cheung, Jen Chou, Kavita Das, Steven Doi, Susannah Donahue, Jessica Eng, Sesshu Foster, Jean Ho, Heidi Hong, Huy Hong, Jayson Joseph, Sabrina Ko, Juliana Koo, Whakyung Lee, Andrew Leong, Edward Lin, Leza Lowitz, Edan Lepucki, Faisal Mohyuddin, Nayomi Munaweera, Abir Majumdar, Viet Thanh Nguyen, Sandra Noel, Yun and Minkyung Oh, Chez Bryan Ong, Gene & Sabine Oishi, Leena Pendharker, Eming Piansay, Amarnath Ravva, Andrew Shih, Paul H. Smith, Shinae Yoon, Monona Wali, Patricia Wakida, Duncan Williams, Amelia Wu & Sachin Adarkar, Anita Wu & James Spicer, Koon Woon, Mikoto Yoshida, Nancy Yap, Patricia and Andy Yun, and others.

  Kaya Press is also supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts; the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors through the Los Angeles County Arts Commission; the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs; and the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses.

  For my family and all of my sifus along the way

  CONTENTS

  LAST OF HER NAME

  THE WRONG DAVE

  A REASONABLE PERSON

  ACCIDENT

  I HAVE NEVER PUT MY HOPE IN ANY OTHER BUT THEE

  WEDDING NIGHT

  BAD INFLUENCE

  THE WOMAN IN THE CLOSET

  LAST OF HER NAME

  ENGLAND, 1983

  AT AGE TWELVE KAREN knocks her teeth out. Lying in a stiff, tangled heap on the bedroom floor, she opens her mouth to let the blood seep out, and with her tongue she feels one, two, three holes where her teeth used to be. She quietly marvels at the wreckage she’s created: the wardrobe, planted face down on the floor; the rug, splattered with blood and mirror shards; the limp, frayed coil of the skipping rope poking out from the rubble of upturned books and cushions.

  Moments earlier, Karen had tied one end of the rope to the door and the other end to the wardrobe in an attempt to recreate a scene from The Return of the Condor Heroes, her favorite mou hap TV show. In this scene, the heroine Dragon Girl demonstrates her skill by sleeping on a single rope suspended four feet above the ground, the hem of her white robes grazing the floor with each soft exhalation. It seemed so effortless, so elegant. How was Karen supposed to know that her slight ninety-pound self would be enough to send the wardrobe crashing to the floor?

  Looking up at the ceiling, Karen strains to wiggle her fingers and toes. They feel thick and dull, as if wrapped in cotton wool, but at least she can feel them. She imagines her mother standing in the doorway, stunned into silence by the tableau of destruction before her eyes, then coming to her senses and rushing to her side so she can begin checking for wounds, tut-tutting all the while at this display of foolishness. Karen hopes she will somehow realize that her daughter can’t possibly be solely to blame for this mishap. Her poor father, perhaps, will be faulted for renting the mou hap videos in the first place—pirated recordings of Hong Kong shows that are delivered to their house each Saturday morning. Karen knows her mother considers this an extravagance, especially since the driver charges extra for coming all the way out to the suburbs from Chinatown. But with any luck, some of her mother’s ire will be directed at Karen’s younger sister Maria. Every weekend, the girls act out fight scenes from The Return of the Condor Heroes, running around the garden and swinging broom handles at each other, landing kicks and punches while their mother occasionally looks up from her weeding to shout, “Avoid the head!” (She doesn’t mind so much that they hit each other but insists that they avoid brain damage.) At first, the sisters would toss a coin for the coveted part of Dragon Girl, who was beautiful and heroic and could boast the best weapons: an army of jade bees commanded with a series of whistles; poisonous needles used as deadly projectiles; and a long sash that shot out from her waist to attack an opponent’s pressure points in both long- and short-range attacks. But Maria soon monopolized the role of Dragon Girl by refusing to play unless she was guaranteed the part, forcing Karen, unwilling to lose her only collaborator, to accept the villainous role of the Scarlett Immortal. The signature weapon of the Scarlett Immortal, a man-hating Taoist nun, was a flywhisk, a ridiculous-looking object that resembled a giant brush. Surely her mother would be able to see the injustice that had set her on the path to this ill-advised endeavor?

  But to Karen’s surprise, her mother doesn’t tut-tut when she sees the mess in the bedroom. She doesn’t demand an explanation or reel off a list of culprits. She simply sweeps her hands slowly over her injured daughter and proceeds to lightly press her fingers along her body, checking for breaks, sprains, cuts. Years later, Karen will think back to this moment—her mother, squatting down beside her, her face darkened. But right now, all that Karen knows is her fear that her mother’s silence is somehow connected to the severity of the injuries.

  “Silly girl,” says her mother. Karen detects an unfamiliar trembling in her voice. “You should know it’s not real.”

  “What do you mean, ‘it’s not real’?” asks Maria, peering in from the doorway.

  “Telephone,” says their mother, one hand outstretched, the other smoothing strands of hair from Karen’s bloody forehead. She dials 999 and says in her staccato English, “Ambulance please! June Leung, 5 Clover Hill. Accident, bad fall. No, not me! My daughter.”

  Karen loses two incisors and a molar and a little dignity. She gains a fat, pink neck brace and a swollen cheek covered with purple and yellow blooms. Maria hangs off the hospital bed frame with her gymnast’s arms, alternating her hands.

  “I can’t believe you were that stupid,” she giggles. “Pretending to be Dragon Girl. Sleeping on a rope. Hahaha!”

  Karen’s face hurts too much to scowl. But she is consoled by the doctor’s recommendation of home rest for a week, perhaps even two. That’s potentially two weeks off from school.

  Out in the hall, Karen’s mother and father talk about the restaurant being shorthanded that week.

  “I can still cover the lunch shift tomorrow,” says her mother. “She’ll be mostly sleeping anyway.”

  “No, Jun-Jun, they can manage,” says her father, “Our little girl’s had a scare. We should both stay with her, at least for a day or two.”

  “Ah Tin, you spoil her.”

  “We have to take care of our girls.”

  “Maria wouldn’t be this careless.”

  Jun-Jun. Ah Tin. Karen’s parents reserve the use of their Chinese names for private debate over the girls, the business, the house, as well as for moments of intimacy—Karen knows this from years of pressing her ear against closed doors. They use their English names, June and Stanley, when speaking with English people, or when they have to fill out a form. In front of the girls, they address each other by
their title or function—“Wife/Husband” or “Mother/Father.” Sometimes Karen observes these frequent transpositions without much thought beyond a vague admiration for her parents’ talent for adaptability. At other times—when a customer nonchalantly says “chink” in the restaurant they own or a neighbor peers over the garden fence as her father snaps the neck of a chicken—she feels a brief, nauseating unease at these interchangeable guises and how they might suggest to others that her parents are not actually who they say they are, resulting in some dreadful punishment.

  But right now, lying in the hospital bed, Karen doesn’t care about any of this. She’s just thinking, Two weeks off school! She’ll have to keep up a bit with homework, her mother will see to that. But otherwise she can just stay home and spend her days watching mou hap videos. She prays for this to be true to whoever might be listening: the goddess of mercy, the god of war, the goddess of the sea, the god of fortune, the goddess of the moon, Jesus, the Dragon Girl and her army of bees. Even the Scarlett Immortal.

  HONG KONG, 1941

  The Japanese army is preparing to launch their attack, and the idiot boy is kicking Jun-Jun in the legs.

  “Ha!” He kicks her again and again. “Ha! Ha!” He whirls around like a malfunctioning spinning top, tracing an erratic path around the concrete front yard that also serves as a thoroughfare for the village. He almost knocks the hat off a farmer steering his ox towards the fields. The farmer catches his hat with a startled laugh and nods at Great Uncle Chutt as if to say, No harm done.

  Jun-Jun maintains the jak ma drill position: eyes forward; palms centered; knees bent.

  “Try again, try to knock her over!” says Great Uncle Chutt.

  The boy, laughing, pushes himself against her legs, punches her arms, and tickles her sides. Jun-Jun imagines high-kicking him to the other side of the fields. He calls her Je Je—big sister. He’d wandered into the village square ten days before, ragged, dirty, and malnourished, making odd, hooting sounds and chuckling to himself incessantly. Great Uncle Chutt took pity on him and pulled him away from the laughing faces. He gave the boy a bowl of rice with a piece of salted fish, which he ate on the stone ground with his hands. When he finished, the boy licked the bowl inside and out, which made Great Uncle Chutt slap his thigh and whistle his approval. Jun-Jun knew then that she’d never get rid of him.

  “Had enough, Jun-Jun?” Great Uncle Chutt’s chicken-scratch voice makes her ears itch. “Had enough?” he repeats.

  His lips smack-smack against the mouth of his pipe. At his feet, the tip of his cane stirs loose gravel, ocean waves to Jun-Jun’s sensitive ears. I hear you, Sifu, thinks Jun-Jun. You insult me, Sifu. I know this trick. Has she not practiced tirelessly? Did she not prove herself on her first day of instruction, holding the jak ma position for a solid hour at age four? Has he forgotten all she has accomplished since that first day? By the age of six she could leap and trap a sparrow in her cupped hands. At nine she had mastered the pole form. At ten she’d driven her fist through a bench and left the skin on her knuckles intact. And yet, on this particular morning, she has been instructed to practice jak ma as if she were a novice.

  Over the years she’s become accustomed to Great Uncle Chutt’s punishments, which usually consist of endlessly repeating a newly learned sequence or skill. She doesn’t openly question or challenge him; for as long as she can remember, he has been her sole guardian, her teacher. There is also pride. She wants him to see that she can take all the punishments, expects them even. But nothing so basic as jak ma! She cannot think what she has done to upset him. She has always been diligent and humble. She hasn’t been guilty of manifesting pride, which, to her Great Uncle Chutt, would give the greatest offense. But in her fury she thinks, I can leap above your head, old man. Great Uncle Chutt hobbles around her, examining her stance, and she’s suddenly unnerved by the possibility that he can hear her thoughts. He grunts approval at the straightness of her back, the equilibrium of her centered palms. He turns to the boy.

  “Try again,” he instructs.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  The boy jumps up and down in front of her, beaming; he has fewer good teeth than the old man. The boy runs at her, lunging head first into her stomach. Jun-Jun is as solid as a tree, and the impact sends him back, wobbling one, two, three steps. She keeps her eyes forward; her skin is warm with fury. Heavens, thinks Jun-Jun. Can you hear me? What will deliver me from this misery?

  Great Uncle Chutt is nodding, nodding.

  “Again,” he tells the boy.

  ENGLAND, 1970

  I can’t live here, thinks June. Clover Hill. She’s never been to this part of town before: leafy, manicured, and quiet. Why are there tiny pebbles on the front of that house? Why is there a hedge cut into the shape of a duck, or is it meant to be a chicken? And she’s never seen a cul-de-sac before, let alone a cul-de-sac on a slope. It looks to her as if some higher power has slid a finger under the earth and tilted the landscape so that one terraced row stands considerably higher than the other. Can’t her husband see that with their house on the top row, all their good fortune will drain away?

  Yes, they’re lucky to have got off the waiting list so soon. Yes, she should be grateful. But what, she wants to know, is the hurry? Can’t they wait another year, if only to get a better deal?

  “It’ll give a bad impression, Jun-Jun,” explains her husband. “Remember what the lady from the housing office said? If we don’t take a council house when we’re offered one, they’ll think we don’t need it as much as everyone else. They might not even let us back on the waiting list.” He takes her hand. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but you’ll see.”

  She knows he’s trying his best. And she knows he’s a good man, though she feared early on that she’d made a mistake. He’d left for England a few months after their wedding, following in the steps of countless men seeking better prospects overseas, and she’d expected him to forget her and take up with a young Englishwoman. But he’d sent her a letter each month with reports on his health, the weather, and his living and working conditions. He always included bank notes wrapped in butcher paper, even when he was between waiter jobs. He’d write, “Thank you for your patience, dear Jun-Jun. I am working hard to prepare a good situation for your arrival.” She told him she didn’t need the money, as she had her own income from the hair salon. But he’d insisted, and she’d dutifully relented, understanding that it was for him a matter of pride, and to some extent consolation, for failing to send for his wife in a timely manner.

  She spent years waiting for him. During that time, she found that the more she imagined his perseverance in squalor, the more noble he seemed. And the more vindicated she felt in her decision to invest in this man of rare humility. She imagined his dingy bedsit, riddled with mold and cockroaches, and the floorboard under which he’d secrete money from his week’s wages in a biscuit tin, saving towards their reunion fund. She imagined his cold, lonely nights in the restaurant basement, hunched over metal pails of potatoes as he scraped their skins off one by one, practicing the English phrases (“Good evening, Sir, Madam” “Have you made a reservation?” “I would recommend the lobster”) that would get him out of the basement and secure a front-of-house position. All of it was for their future together.

  Eventually Jun-Jun’s wait was over. She stepped onto a plane for the very first time, clutching a handbag that contained her papers, her passport (complete with her new name, “June Leung,” chosen by her husband), and, carefully folded between sheets of tissue paper, an embroidered picture she’d bought of two cranes perched on a treetop that symbolized matrimonial happiness.

  “That wall,” says June, pointing to the fat strip of road between two rows of houses that abruptly stops at a brick wall. “It’s blocking the chi.”

  “Chi is important,” says her husband, scratching his chin. “What if we sneak back here tonight and knock it down?”

  “Very funny.”

  “This will be good for us,” assure
s her husband. He gently pats her belly. “For all of us.”

  June discovers that she doesn’t like to eat alone in this country. Stanley is at the restaurant most evenings, and although she tries to wait for him, being pregnant makes keen demands on her appetite. She’s still getting used to their new cul-de-sac home; the quiet doesn’t really agree with her. Eating her dinner in the silent, too-bright kitchen, she becomes almost wistful for their first home: a cramped, one-bedroom flat in the High Street. The noise of the street and the smell of grease from the chip shop downstairs had made it easier to pretend she was back in Kowloon City, with its maze of neon ladders and the reassurance of dense, close-moving bodies.

  On such evenings, June paces through the rooms of their new home, trying to reconcile herself to the previous tenants’ taste. They’ve left a few pieces of furniture, most notably the wide, fifties-style drinks cabinet that she envisions as a possible shoe closet. Mostly, though, it’s a virgin shell: rickety window frames that bone-rattle through the night; dark, grubby wallpaper the color of dry lichen; and a peeling orange slab of a front door with a knobby glass pane that tells you if someone is hovering behind it.

  ENGLAND, 1983

  Soon after she returns to school, Karen notices Ricky Stokes from Year Ten has started hanging around the auditorium entrance after her Monday and Wednesday choir practice. As she heads out of the hall with the other students, he calls out, “Where are you going?” or “Say hello.” At first Karen doesn’t realize he’s talking to her. But then he starts saying her name in a coaxing, sing-song way, as if calling a lost dog. “Kaaaaaa-ren. Come on, give me a smile, Kaaaaren.” She hurries past with her chin pressing into her neck brace, her mouth clamped firmly shut to hide her missing teeth, dismayed and surprised that he knows she exists.

  She manages to avoid him during the day, ducking behind a corner when she catches sight of him. Like most of the Year Tens, Ricky Stokes looms over the younger students, but what makes him easier to pick out is the stark contrast between his pasty white face and his dark, spiky brush of hair. That plus his habit of loitering in the same spots at lunchtime—on the back steps of the auditorium or by the bike sheds—to smoke, or to fidget with his lighter or whatever object of interest he’s picked up off the ground.