“Will we ever move back to Chinatown?” she asked Helen.
“The air is warmer here. Better for your lungs—and your father’s.”
“What if the bakery fails?” Marigold asked, more bold than wise. “Then will we move back?”
Helen’s expression turned hard. “Do you want us to fail? Would that make you happy?”
“No. That’s not what I—”
“God gave you a mouth, know when to keep it shut.” Helen turned away, sweeping vigorously. “To the attic. Don’t come down until dinner.”
Marigold’s heart sank. Why was it that she could never say anything right to her mother? She trudged up the stairs, wishing Helen would be as patient with her as she was with her sisters.
She might as well have wished for the moon.
Kansas City
1953
Chapter Thirty-Two
Helen
My first winter in America, I realized that marrying Philip had been a mistake.
He was not a man of many words. So much of our quarreling could have been avoided if he simply told me what he was thinking, but no marriage was perfect, and I could tell he was trying. The problem was the gambling.
The habit started out like a weed. A paltry thing at first, limited to late-night games of mahjong a few times a month. I didn’t suspect Philip was addicted until it was too late.
“I have to go,” he’d say. “Sam Bou is organizing, and if he wants to gamble, we have to play. Else he might not pay us.”
“You and Francis do all the work, why doesheget to keep all the money?”
“Just bear it for now. Once Francis and I open our own place, things will be better.”
I didn’t trust Sam Bou, and I resented his influence over Philip. But what could I do?
I didn’t know about my husband’s debts until the loan sharks came. There weren’t many Chinese in Kansas City, and I thoughtI’d met everyone. Then, one Sunday night in early April, a white Buick pulled up onto the street outside our apartment.
It was late. Francis was still at the restaurant, Philip was in the shower, and I was getting ready for bed. Our heater wasn’t working, and despite it being spring already, outside there were still mounds of snow. I was putting on an extra sweater when someone knocked on our door.
I thought it was Francis, who often forgot his key. I opened the door, a lecture on the precipice of my tongue, when my words stopped short.
A muscular bald man leaned against the doorframe. “Where’s Philip?”
He spoke English even though he was Chinese, and on this frigid night all he wore was a short-sleeved shirt—no jacket, no hat, no scarf.
He caught the door before I closed it. “You tell your husband to come out.”
I stared him down. “You have the wrong house.”
“Helen.” Philip appeared out of nowhere, his voice low and intense. “I’ll take care of it.”
I followed Philip as he stalked toward the bed we shared, digging underneath the mattress for the dollars I had painstakingly saved.
“What are you doing?” I exclaimed. “That’s my money!”
“It’sourmoney,” he said, shouldering me aside. Though our home was barely fifteen paces from one end to the other, he rushed as though it were a hundred to the man at the door. “Here, every dollar is there. Good night, Uncle Fok.” He bowed. “Thank you for your patience.”
