Free Typical American by Gish Jen Page A

week, and then again and again, until they were practiced at it — until it had become the kernel of their married life, the form of intimacy they knew best. Sad refinements: Ralph knocked at Helen's skull. "Nothing to say? Anybody there? Come on, open up." Knocking made Ralph feel fierce, but it made Helen go blank — which made him knock more, and command her to breathe, and accuse her of holding her breath on purpose (which she wasn't, really, she wasn't, she wasn't) until she ran away into another room. Sometimes she would blockade

    the door; he would bang and bang, unable to stop himself. He had never dreamed a person could be so powerless in his power. But there he'd be, yelling, "I'm the father of this family! Do you hear me? The father, not the son!" She would start crying. Then usually he would back off, apologetic and tender. These were some of the most passionate moments of their lives together, the most searingly entwined. How central Helen felt then, how naturally indispensable!
    As opposed to the hours and hours she seemed to stand outside of something deeper than mere marriage. Was it natural or unnatural? Helen didn't know, and tried not to be jealous, but she couldn't help but notice how Ralph hung on to Theresa's every word these days, even if what she had to say didn't particularly interest him. "We're wrong to say typical American," for example. That was a new theme with Theresa. Over and over she explained that Pete was just a person, like them, that Boyboy was just a dog. "Really?" Ralph had no idea what she meant, but he listened as though trying to discover his essential human worth. He cocked his head. He beetled his brow. Once he even cleaned out his ears with his pinkies, as if what stood between him and some more vital, degree-holding self was wax.
    What could Helen do but place her hopes in time?

    "You went up the trap door*" Ralph said.
    "It was nothing, really. You should try it" she said, nonchalant, though in one way, she was taken aback too. How much, how fast she was changing! There was at least that much to be happy about, she supposed. The same girl who had never so much as drawn her own bath was now sprouting mung beans in jars with holes punched in their screw lids. It was as if, once she'd resigned herself to her new world, something had taken her over — a drive to make it hers. She made her own Chinese pancakes now. She made her own red bean paste, boiling and mashing and frying the beans, then using them to fill buns, which she made also. She made curtains; she made bedspreads; she rewired Ralph's old lamp. She couldn't help but feel proud. Too proud, really — she tried to bind that feeling up — recognizing still, though, that in her own way she was becoming private strength itself. She was the hidden double stitching that kept armholes from tearing out. And all because she'd discovered, by herself, a secret — that working was enjoyable. Effort, result. Twist, the cap comes off. Water, the plant grows. Having never done things before, she was entranced by these small satisfactions; she was astounded when, pausing at the sink, a door of sun opening and shutting on her wrist, she realized — yes. Just now, waiting for her bucket to fill, she felt strong. Just this moment, plotting how not to leave footprints on her clean floor, she was at peace.
    Of course, it was still important that her hands be too delicate to wield the mop, or the rust-spotted butcher's cleaver. Once, in an effusion of sympathy, a strange American woman had squeezed Helen's hand (typical American no-manners); the American had wondered then at how soft and smooth Helen's skin was. "Really?" said Helen. But actually, she knew it. She knew how tiny she was too, how unmuscled in the arms; she appreciated, as if in a mirror, that she was amazing. And that mattered, the way it mattered that she be busy but not busy at the same time — that, while competent, she be a Chinese

    girl. Theresa's work might be her