Free Typical American by Gish Jen Page B

life. One part of Helen, though, still lounged in her pink-piped pajamas, under a shimmering silk comforter, clapping while her brother performed magic tricks. Scarves out of his shoe! And how did he know she was holding the ace? Later he had showed her how it all worked, the secret marks and folds, the way he distracted her eye. Standard stuff, he shrugged, in his brotherly way. He flared his nostrils at her, a sign of affection. Anybody could do it.
    Now there was no one to show her anything anymore; the tricks, in her dimming memory, glowed with magic again, like an old mirror resilvered by candlelight. After work, though, still came what she thought of as "doing nothing," a proper Shanghainese-girl activity. Without Theresa and Ralph knowing, she spent large parts of her afternoons listening to the radio, or reading the magazines she kept under her mattress. She loved the advertisements especially, so gorgeously puzzling. Which part of the picture was the "velvet"? Which the "portrait neckline"? Also she liked the insights into American home life — the revelation that most Americans showered every day, first thing in the morning, for example. (This amazed Helen, who took occasional baths, in the evening.) Sometimes she talked on the phone to friends from the English language school. Juliet Shon and Pauline Hu, every now and then. More often, Janis Chao. These were the hours in which she sang a litde; breathed however she wanted; and simply kept quiet — more important now than ever, as she had a hunch she might be pregnant. It was only a tingling in her breasts so far, an odd pressure that might almost be a mood; still, if her mother were here, Helen knew, she'd be telling her at every minute to man man zou — go slow, take care. A calm mother, she'd be saying, makes for a calm and happy child.
    Who could take it easy with Ralph home, though? He was elated when she told him the news, but for the most part slept on the couch like an oversized roll pillow. Everything he took badly.

    One day Theresa heard that the super's dog had been sent to the veterinarian, something serious. Then, the next day, more — Pete had had Boyboy put to sleep. "Cancer," Theresa said.
    "Asleep?" Ralph said. So much fun he'd made of the dog; still, now he turned mournful. "Boyboy? A dog can get cancer?"
    There was nothing anyone could do, explained Theresa.
    Ting bu jian — Ralph did not hear her. "You're glad," he accused, as though, bearing the news, Theresa had something to do with it.
    "I am not glad" she said.
    Not too long after that, she came upstairs waving a letter. It was only a state school, but she'd gotten money too, a scholarship.
    "You are glad" insisted Ralph. He moved from the couch to his bed.
    Now the radiators clanked extra-loud, several times — so loud, they woke Ralph up. Something the matter?
    "Nothing" Helen answered.
    That was wrong. At first it wasn't noticeable. Then, by morning, it was.
    "It's cold in here" said Ralph.
    When Helen and Theresa went down to Pete's office to complain, they found it deserted, and his desk tipped over. Several of its drawers were gone; gray and pink gum wads barnacled the underside of the kneehole. The office window had been smashed.
    Theresa shook her head. "Who knows what happened" She righted the desk.
    "Left?" said Ralph, upstairs. "Fete? No heat?"
    It wasn't so bad. They put on extra sweaters, feeling hardy. Typical American unreliable! They agreed Pete would come back. Or else the owner would come. For the rent, they agreed. That was in two weeks. If they knew the owner, they would call him, but they didn't. They asked around. Did anyone know him? But the only person anyone knew was Pete.

    Day three. Ralph opened the windows. It was colder inside than out, he maintained. The curtains, usually limp, furled and billowed, magnificent with life.
    "The rain's coming in," observed Theresa.
    "How stupid of me not to have noticed," said Ralph.
    Day four. Still no super, still no