The Leavers(32)

She bunched up her face. “I don’t know Chinese.”

“Oh,” he said, crushed.

KAY INSISTED HE HOLD her hand. It was his job to lead her through the city, to make sure she was okay. An old woman with a cane was overtaking them, and Deming tried to get Kay to walk faster. Peter lingered behind them. “Come on, Dad,” he said.

Deming trudged on, a sour stench emanating from the garbage bags on the curb, and when he wasn’t looking he stepped into a smear of dog poop. He scraped his sneaker against the pavement. On the corner, a guy with a blonde ponytail was letting his dog pee all over the sidewalk.

They were going to Chinatown for lunch, passing Chinese people who were following the paths from his face to Kay’s hand to Kay and Peter’s faces, from Angel’s to Jim and Elaine’s. Angel couldn’t understand Chinese. “Kay, this is where they have the best cakes.” She pointed to a storefront that Deming didn’t recognize. They couldn’t be far from Rutgers Street.

“There used to be a bubble tea place here,” he said.

“This is where I have lion dance,” said Angel. “My sifu’s name is Steve and our troupe is called the Lotus Blossoms.”

“They’re something,” Elaine said. “The lion dance and the fan dance, all the different dances, I can’t keep track. It’s so good for the kids to connect to their culture. That way they’ll still know how to be Chinese.”

“Yes, it’s so important,” said Kay.

“It’s not too late to register Daniel for camp,” Elaine said. “It’s the last week of August. It would be great for him. They have all kinds of cultural activities for the kids.”

“E-mail me the info. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it.”

They passed a wet market with plastic buckets of crabs. Two ducks hung in a window, roasted brown and sticky with sauce. Peter took his camera out and fumbled with the settings. He aimed his lens, then frowned at the screen.

“Hey, how about a family shot?” Jim said, taking the camera from Peter. Angel ran in front of the window, hip stuck out into a pose.

“Work it, Angel, work it!” Elaine said. “Come on, Wilkinsons!”

They assembled on the sidewalk beneath the roast ducks and sweaty window, a man in a white apron hacking meat inside as Elaine wrapped her arms around Angel, Peter and Kay’s arms around Deming.

“How do you use this thing?” Jim shouted, and Peter broke away to assist. They passed the camera back and forth. “Okay. Smile, everyone. One, two, three . . . ”

Deming stood against Peter. People were staring. Jim pressed another button. “One more. Daniel, smile in this one. Come on, you’re on vacation. Vacation is supposed to be fun.”

“Smi-ile,” Elaine said.

Deming forced a smile.

“Cheese!” sang Angel.

Kay pulled him closer. “It’s okay,” she whispered, “you don’t have to smile.” But he did, glad that she was on his side.

AT A RESTAURANT ON Mott Street, the waiter gave them English menus, looking at Deming and Angel. He started to dole out chopsticks, then paused and pulled out silverware instead. On the table in front of Deming he placed a glinting metal fork with a water stain on the handle.

“Chopsticks for me, please,” Elaine said.

“Me, too,” said Kay.

“Chopsticks for all,” Jim said.

The waiter put down chopsticks and took their orders, and as he walked away Deming heard him talking to another waiter in Fuzhounese about moving tables together for a larger group of customers. The words elicited zaps in a dormant corner of his brain. Soon, he would be speaking Fuzhounese all the time.

The dishes came out fast and were limp, reheated. Turnip cake, broccoli, shrimp dumplings. Angel stabbed holes into the side of a dumpling, and even the solitary curl of steam was lackluster.

“Delicious,” Kay murmured, scooping up food for Deming’s plate. The meat tasted old. His mother would have never eaten food this bad.

“This is one of those off-the-beaten-path places,” Elaine said. “We’ve been coming here for years.”

Jim turned to Deming. “You must miss this, Daniel, having authentic Chinese food.”

“We went to Great Wall that one time,” Peter said.

Deming recalled the tempura and pad thai he’d picked at during a visit to the buffet table at the strip mall restaurant. The owners hadn’t even looked Chinese.

“Come on, Great Wall doesn’t count,” Kay said. “Daniel knows that.”

“Okay, okay, Ridgeborough isn’t exactly Manhattan when it comes to ethnic food,” Peter said. “It’s more like a cultural desert.”

“You have to reframe it,” Elaine said. “Think of it as a cultural retreat.”

“A cultural siesta,” Jim said.

“But we’ve had terrific Chinese food traveling in Vancouver and London,” Kay said. “Spoiled us for life.”

Peter nibbled a turnip cake. “This is what we come to New York for.”

“And to see us!” Angel said.

“I was about to say that. That’s the most important thing of all. Almost more important than dumplings.”

“Almost?” Angel said.

Elaine waved her hands. “Guys, should we get dessert? Bean soup?”