Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls #1)(55)

“She’s like Mama that way. She calls everyone by title or rank in the family. She even calls her husband Old Man Louie!”

It feels good to laugh. Mama and Baba had called him that as a sign of respect; we’d always called him that because we didn’t like him; Yen-yen calls him that because that’s how she sees him.

“She has natural feet, but she’s far more backward than Mama ever was,” I continue. “She believes in ghosts, spirits, potions, the zodiac, what to eat and not eat, all that mumbo jumbo—”

May snorts in disgust and irritation. “Remember when I made the mistake of saying I had a cold and she brewed me a tea of ginger and dried scallions to clear my chest and made me breathe steamed vinegar to relieve my congestion? That was disgusting!”

“But it worked.”

“Yes,” May admits, “but now she wants me to go to the herbalist to make me more fertile and attractive to the boy-husband. She tells me that the Sheep and the Boar are among the most compatible of the signs.”

“Mama always said that the Boar has a pure heart, that it has great honesty and simplicity.”

“Vern’s simple all right.” May shudders. “I’ve tried, you know. I mean …” She hesitates. “I sleep in the same bed with him. Some people would say the boy’s lucky to have me there. But he won’t do anything, even though he has everything below that he needs.”

She lets that hang in the air for me to consider. We’re both killing time here in this horrible limbo, but anytime I think things are bad for me, all I have to do is think about my sister in the next room.

“And then when I go to the kitchen in the morning,” May says, “Yen-yen asks, ‘Where’s your son? I need a grandson.’ When I came home from China City last week, she pulled me aside and said, ‘I see the visit from the little red sister has come again. Tomorrow you will eat sparrow kidneys and dried tangerine peel to strengthen your chi. The herbalist tells me this will make your womb welcome my son’s vital essence.’”

The way she imitates Yen-yen’s high-pitched, squeaky voice makes me smile, but May doesn’t see the humor.

“Why don’t they make you eat sparrow kidneys and tangerine peel? Why don’t they send you to the herbalist?” she demands.

I don’t know why Old Man Louie and his wife treat Sam and me differently. Yen-yen may have a title for everyone, but I’ve never heard her call Sam anything—not by title, not by his American name, not even by his Chinese name. And except for that first night, my father-in-law rarely speaks to either of us.

“Sam and his father don’t get along,” I say. “Have you noticed that?”

“They fight quite a bit. The old man calls Sam toh gee and chok gin. I don’t know what they mean, but they aren’t compliments.”

“He’s saying Sam’s lazy and empty-headed.” I don’t spend much time with Sam, so I ask, “Is he?”

“Not that I’ve seen. The old man keeps insisting Sam run the rickshaw rides when China City opens. He wants Sam to be a puller. Sam doesn’t want to do it.”

“Who would?” I shudder.

“Not here, not anywhere,” May agrees. “Not even if it’s just an entertainment for people.”

I wouldn’t mind talking about Sam a bit more, but May circles back to the problem of her husband.

“You’d think they’d treat him like the other boys around here and have him work with his father after school. He could help Sam and me unpack crates and put merchandise on the shelves for when China City opens, but the old man insists that Vern go straight home to the apartment to do his homework. I think all he does is go to his room and work on his models. And not very well from what I can see.”

“I know. I see more of him than you do. I’m with him every day.” I don’t know if May hears the sourness in my voice, but I do and I hurry to hide it. “Everyone knows a son is precious. Maybe they’re preparing him to take over the businesses one day.”

“But he’s the youngest son! They aren’t going to let him do that. It wouldn’t be right. But Vern’s got to learn how to do something. It’s like they want to keep him a little boy forever.”

“Maybe they don’t want Vern to leave. Maybe they don’t want any of us to leave. They’re just so backward. The way we all live together, the way the businesses are kept within the family, the way they keep their money hidden and protected, the way they don’t give us any spending money.”

That’s right. May and I don’t receive a household allowance. Of course, we can’t say that we want our own money to escape from this place and start over again.

“It’s like they’re a bunch of bumpkins from the countryside,” May says bitterly. “And the way Yen-yen cooks,” she adds almost as an afterthought. “What kind of a Chinese woman is she?”

“We don’t know how to cook either.”

“But we were never expected to cook! We were going to have servants for that.”

We sit and think about that for a while, but what’s the point of dreaming about the past when it’s gone? May looks over to Sanchez Alley. Most of the children have returned to their apartments. “We’d better get back before Old Man Louie locks us out.”