AN EXCERPT FROM IN TAIWAN

The following is an excerpt from Katherine J. Chen’s novel in progress In Taiwan.

The screen flashed images of a raging historic battle. My dad’s eyes grew wide. I turned to look at him, no longer interested in the movie. It was a bit too violent for my taste. I wasn’t as interested in these epic historic films as he was.

We were in the very same theatre he used to sneak into as a boy. Now he was 51-years-old, and he was again in the heart of Taiwan. The soldiers on the screen screamed out one collective cry of victory, and my dad’s face lit up again. His arms shifted, as he controlled his excitement. His eyes told me that something unexpected was going to happen, something he knew but the rest of the theatre didn’t. He was absolutely transfixed like a boy in a candy shop. It didn’t matter that the seats were too hard or that the closest restroom was on the other side of the floor. All that did matter was the here and now of sitting in a theatre again in Taipei and watching this movie.

There was a collective sigh of relief as the soldiers on the screen fell into each other’s arms and wiped the sweat away from their grimy faces. My father smiled and sat back a little in his seat. His fingers groped for some more popcorn, but the bag was empty.

Only a few hours ago, we were walking outside of the theatre hand-in-hand. I didn’t want to lose him in the crowds, and I was scared of the city, the towering buildings, the merciless scooters, and the bustling market stalls filled with people bargaining for the best price. I was convinced that if I let go of his hand, he would literally be whisked away by the crowd. Everyone had a destination here. Everyone was rushing to catch a bus or sprinting down the steps to the subway.

I wanted to sit down somewhere quiet and talk to him. Maybe he couldn’t take it. The noise was probably getting to him as it was getting to me, confusing him perhaps. I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing him look excitedly around. He pointed at a small café and motioned with his head towards the doors. When we finally settled down at a table, I began haranguing him with questions.

“Are you okay? Are you sure you can take all this? It’s crazy out there!”

My voice was excited, and I knew my face was flushed. I glanced casually at the colostomy bag under his shirt, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want to make him feel even more self-conscious about the bag.

“I’m fine,” he said, “I didn’t think I would be able to take it. But I feel great.”

“That’s what you always say. I think we should go home early. This might be too much for you, and besides, the doctor told you to get plenty of rest.” I paused, knowing my voice was rising to a pitch of feverish intensity and annoyance. I couldn’t help it.

My dad chuckled. He looked genuinely happy, and his cheeks had even turned slightly pink in the warmth and gaiety of the restaurant. I couldn’t believe that he was the same person who, only three months ago, lay on a hospital bed in the Intensive Care Unit waiting to die.

“You don’t understand,” he said, “This is my hometown. I’ve waited nearly my whole life to come back to this place.”

AN EXCERPT FROM IN TAIWAN

The following is a chapter from Katherine J. Chen’s novel in progress In Taiwan.

When I was eleven or twelve years old, I began to refuse underwear that was purchased in the United States. I had gotten into the strange habit of wearing only the underwear that my grandmother brought back from Taiwan. But she didn’t visit often, so my underwear began to get old and faded. Several of the pairs already had holes and hanging threads, but I would wear them regardless since I felt that I had no choice. None of the underwear in the United States would satisfy me, and I was immovable on this point.

My mother threw a fit one day as she laid all my underwear out on the bed after washing them. She stood back and counted each pair. Then she approached the bed, snatched each pair up one at a time, and inspected them carefully. The ones that had holes she cast over her shoulder into a pile in the corner of the room. After five minutes had passed, she took the two or three that had survived the test, folded them neatly, and stored them away in a drawer. She then grabbed the remaining fifteen pairs of underwear with holes, tears, and other deformities and shoved them in a garbage bag. The next morning, the garbage men took my underwear from Taiwan away. That same afternoon, she was ready with underwear bought from Old Navy, Limited Too, Macy’s, and Gap. I was furious and refused to try any of them on. I was especially insulted by the ones purchased at Old Navy and Gap, which felt like a direct affront to my intelligence. Of course I knew to change my underwear every day! I did not need my underwear to be labeled with the days of the week, and I reminded my mother of the fact as she looked on at me with steely and impatient eyes.

When my father returned home that day from work, I told him about how I had no underwear left. “The garbage men took my underwear away,” I explained. And I had no qualms either at the time about pointing fingers at the woman who was responsible for my newfound troubles. My dad laughed and trudged into the bathroom. The left side of his face was smeared with blue and black ink, and he hadn’t taken his work clothes off like he usually did at the printing factory. He looked tired, but he wasn’t in a bad mood. On the contrary, he was in great spirits. In only a few days, he would be back in Taiwan on vacation. I couldn’t go with him. My grandmother couldn’t afford two tickets, only one for her firstborn son. I was resentful of this fact, so I decided to make my father’s vacation a little bit worse by adding something new to the list of things he had to bring back for me each day. The list eventually grew to twenty-something items, and he was only planning on staying in Taipei for a little over a week. He didn’t mind, though, and he didn’t waive off the more ridiculous objects either like most parents I knew would. Instead, he studied the list religiously every single night after dinner at his desk. It was almost like an evening class for him.

At eleven-years-old, I was already taller than my father. I had developed early, peaked at 5’1 while he stood at 4’11. When he sat at his desk with the list clutched in his small hands, I loomed over his shoulder and explained each item and why it was absolutely crucial that he bring it back for me. I felt even then like an awkward schoolteacher. I technically shouldn’t have had the authority to say anything or demand anything at all, but I knew his weak points and the guilt he felt at not being able to bring me back with him. My mother was from Shang-hai, so it didn’t matter whether or not she ever saw Taiwan in her lifetime. But I was a different story, being half Taiwanese and having worn dresses (and underwear) purchased from Taiwan all my life.

“I need a new pencil case. The old one has a few strings loose, and the zipper won’t work. You might want to bring two back just in case I don’t like one of them,” I said. Without answering, he would then take a mechanical pencil from one of the desk drawers and write down “two” in the margins next to “pencil case.”

The most important thing on the list, of course, was the underwear. No matter what happened, he had to bring back the right underwear from Taiwan. I told him as a precaution to bring back around thirty pairs or so. “I don’t know how much longer I can take Old Navy, so hurry up,” I said. “Or else, I might have to go without underwear at all! For the rest of my life!”

He was small and not really much of a fighter. He didn’t mind when people poked fun at him or when kids a quarter of his age went up to him to ask how old he was. He didn’t even look particularly deformed, just small with big eyes and a round, boyish head. He left late around 11 o’clock on Saturday for his flight, and I didn’t stop pestering him about the underwear for a day afterwards.

“He has a sample,” I told my mother. “So he should be able to figure it out and buy me the same kind.”

My mother shook her head and said nothing. I called him day and night, reminding him about how important the underwear was. It can’t be bright colors, I would say. And it has to be the exact same kind of fabric without any kind of lace trimmings or cartoon designs. The texture is the most important part, I would add at the conclusion of each phone call.

When my dad came back from Taiwan, he was armed with presents. He practically threw his suitcase at me to prevent me from lunging at him, and the two of us spent a long time just sitting around his luggage trying to count up the inventory of items he had successfully brought back. He finally got up, leaving me hugging the thirty-something pairs of underwear that he had found in some obscure district outside of Taipei on a rainy day. He had caught cold, he explained, and was forced to stay in bed for the remainder of his vacation.

A few hours later, I heard him conversing quietly with my mother in the bedroom. I craned my neck to hear and pressed my ear against the door to catch every word.

“I kept her underwear in my pocket at all times,” he sighed. “I’m sure a lot of people who were at the mall thought I was some kind of pervert. A middle-aged man like me carrying little girl’s underwear around. It’s not right, but what could I do? She insisted that everything including the material and colors had to be the same.”

I smiled. I was secretly glad he took my underwear around or else he might have just forgotten about me and spent too much time enjoying himself.

“Yeah, a lot of people stared,” he continued. “Of course it made me feel self conscious! The salesgirl felt uncomfortable just selling me the underwear!”

I bit my bottom lip. Well, I didn’t mean to make him feel that bad about the damn underwear.

“And you know how many things she put down on that list? It was like twenty-five things! I didn’t even have time to go anywhere or meet anyone. I was always at the mall, and my feet were so sore. I got lost five times on the subway and had to go to the police to ask for directions. Not to mention I got sick that night. I went everywhere. My whole vacation was like a scavenger hunt for my daughter’s underwear!”

I turned away from the door and walked slowly into my room. My head felt heavy, as I sat down and looked at the stuffed toys, clothes, and other assorted items neatly stacked away already on my bed. My vision grew blurry, and I realized I had begun to cry.

AN EXCERPT FROM PALE COLORS

The following is a short passage from PenTales Fellow Catherine Despont’s novel in progress Pale Colors.

I have vivid ideas of Jim’s childhood. I know he was often alone. I imagine long hours in school, and in after-school involved in solitary games, long hours alone in an apartment while his mother went grocery shopping—placed on a couch, as if for a portrait, to watch a film, or else dutifully playing Legos, the street sound in the apartment always louder than his own. His sounds—the small click of building, the light clacking of shuffled pieces, some hushed mechanical noises, tube-socks shuffling on the carpet, the movement of a stool over linoleum, the rush of an open faucet, the creak of a bed, the drag of an opened drawer, the thudded punctuation of its closing, no TV in all of this.

I imagine someone living in the apartment below baffled by the almost inaudible movements, unable to visualize the person who could be so quiet, tread so lightly, have such a minute routine, and be almost constantly in the house—wondering what sort of a person goes without slamming something or bumping a table, cursing or getting a telephone call, taking a shower, playing the radio? He doesn’t think of a child. A kid he imagines would be noisier—cartoons, random crashes, roughhousing, pot banging, crying, stamping. The person who lives upstairs seems almost unearthly.

One weekend the downstairs neighbor is home with a fever. His delirium fixates on the sounds—the lightness and tiny-ness making them more distinctive, rather than less. He knows a woman lives there, but has never seen the other person who never seems to leave. He begins to doubt such a person could actually exist—how anyone can live without the need of making other noises. He ends up going to a friend’s house to sleep. When he comes back he decides to find out who lives there. He goes past his landing, and straight to the mysterious door, knocks, breath held, trying to hear over the sound of his heart. He hears a quiet approach, but no voice. The door doesn’t open. He says hello, his voice louder than it needs to be, prepared to talk to someone who won’t understand. And from behind the door he hears,

—Yes. Who is it please?

A high voice, but not a girl’s, a small voice but not an old person’s, so polite, so unexpected—the person such a mystery—he can’t place it immediately.

—It’s your neighbor from downstairs.

—Yes?

He’s not sure what to say. Finally he asks whether everything is OK and, hearing the small yes again, is flooded by relief, suddenly realizing it’s a young boy. Knowing he must sound suspicious he introduces himself, says he’s new to the building.

Then he leaves knowing, but maybe doesn’t fully believe until some weeks, until he sees—a rather pale boy, pretty, dressed in corduroys, Velcro sneakers and a stripped polo, following his mother up the stairs, quietly engaged in using his fingers to point his feet onto every step.

FIREFLY ON THE WALL

By Katherine J. Chen

Before my mother took the September issue
of Vogue and ended your life,
you decided to give it another try.

You were sitting on the pink wall
of her bedroom, rubbing the organs
in your lower abdomen.

I pointed at you and your tiny
legs, a brown
stain in a sea of tulips.

My mother reached out with her fingers,
thought twice, and rolled
Sienna Miller’s blue eyes into a scroll.

You didn’t have much time, it was your
organs against her brown arm,
falling like Thor’s hammer across the pink wall.

I heard a thunder clap,
and you were dead,
a brown stain in a sea of tulips.

But you had won the race
against my mother’s brown arm
that fell like Thor’s hammer on your tiny legs.

Your organs glowed from the outside,
a small speck of green in a sea
of tulips on my mother’s pink wall.

And my mother whose arm fell
like Thor’s hammer on your tiny legs
felt sorry that you had died.

WHEN MY FIRST DOG DIED

By Katherine J. Chen

We put him in a shoebox out back
in a patch of weeds,
at the base of a diseased tree
which shook red leaves
all year round.

We buried him at night,
ashamed of ourselves,
afraid that some neighbor
watching from his bedroom window
would call the police.

You did not deserve this,
the unsung dirge
and cardboard coffin lined
with Shop Rite coupons
and job listings.

I spent the last day,
chasing you in the backyard,
singing your praises
while throwing you beef
treats that landed on your nose.

Ten hours later, you were dead,
your muzzle wrapped
in duct tape, though I know
you had fought hard to live,
had tried to make it through the night.

I promised you revenge,
as you stared down on us
from your peephole
in the sky,
a shoo-in for heaven.