Lee - Yellow: Stories

YELLOW

STORIES

DON LEE

W. W. NORTON & COMPANY

NEW YORK / LONDON

For my father, Victor,

my sister, Teresa,

and in memory of

my mother, Jean

Thanks to my editor, Alane Salierno Mason, and my agent, Maria Massie; my friends who read the work over the years: David and Bethany Daniel, Heidi Pitlor, Fred Leebron, Kathryn Herold, Richard Haesler, Jennifer Egan, Debra Spark, Susan Conley, Melanie Rae Thon, Scott Buck, Mary Behrens, James Carroll, John Skoyles, and DeWitt Henry; the Massachusetts Cultural Council and the St. Botolph Club Foundation for fellowships; and the editors of the magazines in which these stories, in different form, first appeared: The Gettysburg Review (The Price of Eggs in China), Glimmer Train (Voir Dire), GQ (Widowers, as El Nio), Ploughshares (The Lone Night Cantina), New England Review (Casual Water and Domo Arigato), and American Short Fiction (Yellow).

CONTENTS

THE PRICE OF EGGS IN CHINA

I T WAS noon when Dean Kaneshiro arrived at Oriental Hair Poet No. 2s house, and as she opened the door, she said, blinking, Hello. Come in. Im sorry. Im not quite awake.

He carried his measuring rig through the living room, noting the red birch floor, the authentic Stickley, the Nakashima table, the Maloof credenzagood craftsmanship, carefully selected, this poet, Marcella Ahn, was a woman who knew wood.

When you called, she said in her study, Id almost forgotten. Its been over two years! I hope I wasnt too difficult to track down.

Immediately Dean was annoyed. When she had ordered the chair, he had been clear about his backlog, and today was the exact date hed given her for the fitting. And she had been difficult to track down, despite his request, two years ago, that she notify him of any changes of address. Her telephone number in San Francisco had been disconnected, and he had had to find her book in the library, then call her publisher in New York, then her agent, only to learn that Marcella Ahn had moved an hour south of San Francisco to the very town, Rosarita Bay, where he himself lived. Never mind that he should have figured this out, having overheard rumors of yet another Asian poet in town with spectacular long hair, rumors which had prompted the references to her and Caroline Yip, his girlfriend of eight months, as the Oriental Hair Poets.

He adjusted his rig. Marcella Ahn was thin and tall, but most of her height was in her torso, not her legstypical of Koreans. She wore tight midnight-blue velvet pants, lace-up black boots, and a flouncy white Victorian blouse, her tiny waist cinched by a thick leather belt.

Sit, please, he said. She settled into the measuring rig. He walked around her twice, then said, Stand up, please. After she got up, he fine-tuned the back supports and armrests and shortened the legs. Again, please.

She sat down. Oh, thats much better, infinitely better, she said. You can do that just by looking?

Now came the part that Dean always hated. He could use the rig to custom-fit his chairs for every part of the body except for one. Could you turn around, please?

Sorry?

Could you turn around? For the saddling of the seat?

Marcella Ahns eyes lighted, and the whitewash of her foundation and powder was suddenly broken by the mischievous curl of her lips, which were painted a deep claret. You mean you want to examine... my buttocks ?

He could feel sweat popping on his forehead. Please.

Still smirking, she raised her arms, the ruffled cuffs of her blouse dropping away, followed by the jangling release of two dozen silver bracelets on each wrist. There were silver rings on nearly every digit, too, and with her exquisitely lacquered fingers, she slowly gathered her hairstraight and lambent and hanging to midthighand raked it over one shoulder so it lay over her breast. Then she pivoted on her toe, turned around, and daintily lifted the tail of her blouse to expose her butt.

He squatted behind her and stared at it for a full ten seconds. It was a good butt, a firm, StairMastered butt, a shapely, surprisingly protuberant butt.

She peeked over her shoulder. Need me to bend over a little? she asked.

He bounced up and moved across the room and pretended to jot down some notes, then looked around. More classic modern furniture, very expensive. And the place was neat, obsessive-compulsive neat. He pointed to her desk. Youll be using the chair here?

Yes.

To do your writing?

Uh-huh.

Ill watch you, then. For twenty minutes, please.

What? Right now?

Itll help me to see you work, how you sit, maybe slouch.

Its not that simple, she said.

No?

Of course not. Poets cant write on demand. You know nothing about poetry, do you?

No, I dont, Dean said. All he ever read, in fact, were mystery novels. He went through three or four of them a weekanything with a crime, an investigation. He was now so familiar with forensic techniques, he could predict almost any plot twist, but his head still swam in delight at the first hint of a frame-up or double-cross.

He glanced out the window. Marcella Ahn lived off Skyview Ridge Road, which crested the rolling foothills, and she had one of the few panoramic views of Rosarita Baythe harbor to the north, the marsh to the south, the town in the middle, and, everywhere beyond, the vast Pacific.

Marcella Ahn had her hands on her hips. And I dont slouch, she said.

Eventually he did convince her to sit in her present desk chair, an ugly vinyl contraption with pneumatic levers and bulky ergonomic pads. She opened a bound notebook and uncapped a fountain pen, and hovered over the blank page for what seemed like a long time. Then she abruptly set everything aside and booted up her laptop computer. What do you do with clients who arent within driving distance?

I ask for a videotape, and I talk to their tailor. Try to work, please. Then Ill be out of your way.

I feel so silly.

Just pretend Im not here, he said.

Marcella Ahn continued to stare at the computer screen. She shifted, crossed her legs, and tucked them underneath her. Finally, she set her fingers on the keys and tapped out three wordsall she could manage, apparently. She exhaled heavily. When will the chair be ready?

Ill start on it next month, on April twentieth, then three weeks, so May eleventh, he told her, though he required only half that time. He liked to plan for contingencies, and he knew his customers wanted to believeespecially with the prices they were payingthat it took him longer to make the chairs.

Can I visit your studio? she asked.

No, you cannot.

Ah, you see, you can dish it

It would be very inconvenient.

For twenty minutes.

Please dont, he said.

Seriously. I cant swing by for a couple of minutes?

No.

Marcella Ahn let out a dismissive puff. Artists, she said.

O RIENTAL Hair Poet No. 1 was a slob. Caroline Yip lived in an apartment above the R. B. Feed & Hardware store, one small room with a Pullman kitchen, a cramped bathroom, and no closets. Her only furnishings were a futon, a boom box, and a coffee table, and the floor was littered with clothes, CDs, shoes, books, newspapers, bills, and magazines. There was a thick layer of grease on the stovetop, dust and hair and curdled food on every other surface, and the bathroom was clogged with sixty-two bottles of shampoo and conditioner, some half-filled, most of them empty.