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camwynis the rest of it.
Deep breath. Dial the USA country code. Exhale. Dial the number. Deep breath again.
It's ringing. Exhale.
It's not ringing. One more breath.
"Hsiang residence, James speaking-"
"Dad?"
A pause. Then: *click*
Lean head against wall. Close eyes. Exhale.
---------------
"Why do you do this to yourself, Shrimp?" That's the abbot, Chef Cheng's friend. He's a good man. He's older than dirt and two weeks ago he punched a man so hard his nose ended up in one of his ears. We're walking on the grounds, since I don't have to be in the city today.
"Because it's my family, Reverend Sir. I can't just. . . I can't leave it like this."
He looks sideways and up at me (I'm about a hand taller than he is), and says gently, "You're trying too hard. I thought we went over that in practice last week."
"But that was Do practice, sir. That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?" He smiles a little. "It's all the same thing, Shrimp. I thought you knew that already."
I can't hide my embarrassment, even when I duck my head. "Yes, sir," I mumble. I can hear him sigh.
"Stop that. You did know better last week. What made such a difference that you forgot it so quickly?"
"Reverend Sir, I thought. . . maybe if I just tried again. There's a line in my father's Gospel that came to mind."
"'Who among you, if his son asks for an egg, will hand him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will hand him a scorpion?'" he quotes.
". . . well, that and the one about the widow. . ."
"And the unjust judge. The one who yielded to persistence. Yes. I've read those." He resumes walking. "From what you've said, your parents set great store by them."
The sand makes interesting noises under my feet. "Yes, Sir."
"How many does this make it?"
"Eight, Reverend Sir."
"That's what I thought." There are birds passing overhead in the distance; he lifts his eyes to them, dark-robed arms together behind his back. "Shrimp. . . you're still doing it."
"Doing what, sir?"
"Trying to live in his way." He stops, and looks at me, not unkindly. "If it didn't work for you when you lived under his roof and went to his church, what makes you think that you'll find enough strength in it to convince him now?"
"But he has to listen! It's right from his own-"
"Ah." The abbot holds up one hand. "Stop right there. Finish that sentence inside your head before you open your mouth again.
Oh. . .
The abbot nods. "There you are," he says gently.
"So . . ." I'm just standing here, staring at him, the sand under my feet and the wind starting to pick up overhead. "What do I do now?"
The abbot shrugs. "There's an old saying for times like this," he says, almost smiling. "Even in this country. 'If you don't stop picking at it, it won't heal.'"
"Yes, Reverend Sir."
------------------
Dial the USA country code. Wave off the girl looking to use the booth. Wait while it rings.
A very, very tired voice on the other end, a voice older by more than a year than last time. "Hsiang residence. James speaking."
There is something in my chest and it's holding up my heart as I form the words. "Dad. . . it's me."
Silence.
"I need to talk to you."
Silence.
"Please?"
". . .all right."
Kill that fear of emptiness,
loneliness I hide. . .
Dad listened. It took a year and a half before he'd even try, but he listened. He sent his own son away - a Chinese man sending his own son, his heir, the one who'd followed in his footsteps when his brother had failed. That's just about the most impossible thing you can do, but he did it. . . but in the end he listened.
River, oh, river, river running deep
The Robinsons. . . I saw my father there. Some trace of him, something like him, somewhere down underneath all of it.
Bring me something
To let me get to sleep
My father meant well, I know that now. He wanted what any father wants - something good for his children. He wanted a better life than he had, and he wanted us to have the same wonderful afterlife with his beloved God. He saw incomprehensible ingratitude and a rejection he hadn't even imagined, and he did what he had to in order to survive it. I hurt him, badly, and he answered the only way he knew how. I don't blame him. And I'm glad we made up, before I left for the voyage into the unknown.
The Robinsons. . . no. They wanted something good for their children, too, but. . . whatever it was that prompted it, there was no love there. Real love, honest love, doesn't stoop to horror. Compassion doesn't employ atrocity. They were willing to do anything to get what they wanted. My father could've done that, could've made me stay, but he didn't. He knew. . .
In the washing of the water will you take it all away
I saw my father's face in them and for that I gave them more than they were due. I could not have fought them if I tried, because I saw what was not there and that would have stayed my hand. I might have swayed their minds, if I'd had the stomach for it; I know I have enough strength for that sort of thing, where there is the will to go with it. I might have changed their bodies, had I had more will to do so. I might have stung them with pain for just long enough to drop their weapons, so that we could go free without violence. I could even have fought them. Adam was there. Martin was strong with anger. Everyone would have fought, and we would have won. It was what I thought I saw that stopped me, and made me think there was some hope, something of goodness that could be touched.
For me there was a rock and a pool, for my father the boulder and the puddle; but for the Robinsons there was only a bottomless well, torn open by their own choice. A stone thrown into that well would have fallen hopelessly, forever.
Bring me something to take this pain away.
I have done my father the grossest kind of injustice, by allowing myself to believe I saw him in them. And I have done my companions an equal wrong, by allowing that wrong judgment, that cloud of illusion, to tinge my thoughts and actions. For the sake of a delusion I did not even recognize I nearly got us all killed. So many wasted chances, spent for the sake of a lie. . .
But as long as there is life, there is a chance, and so the question is: how do I atone for this?
It had long since gone dark, and the stars were beginning to come out. Ho rose from his knees and stood, looking around the ship as he shook out first one leg and then the other.
"There you are," came a voice he recognized. Kate. Mentally he braced himself; this wasn't a time for him to tell anyone how to think or what to do. "The guys in the kitchen are looking for you."
He nodded, murmuring a relieved thanks, and turned to head for the cabin.
"Hey," came Kate's voice from behind him, "where've you been, anyway? Nobody could find you before."
Ho shrugged. "Duck hunting," he said, and closed the door behind him.
Deep breath. Dial the USA country code. Exhale. Dial the number. Deep breath again.
It's ringing. Exhale.
It's not ringing. One more breath.
"Hsiang residence, James speaking-"
"Dad?"
A pause. Then: *click*
Lean head against wall. Close eyes. Exhale.
---------------
"Why do you do this to yourself, Shrimp?" That's the abbot, Chef Cheng's friend. He's a good man. He's older than dirt and two weeks ago he punched a man so hard his nose ended up in one of his ears. We're walking on the grounds, since I don't have to be in the city today.
"Because it's my family, Reverend Sir. I can't just. . . I can't leave it like this."
He looks sideways and up at me (I'm about a hand taller than he is), and says gently, "You're trying too hard. I thought we went over that in practice last week."
"But that was Do practice, sir. That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?" He smiles a little. "It's all the same thing, Shrimp. I thought you knew that already."
I can't hide my embarrassment, even when I duck my head. "Yes, sir," I mumble. I can hear him sigh.
"Stop that. You did know better last week. What made such a difference that you forgot it so quickly?"
"Reverend Sir, I thought. . . maybe if I just tried again. There's a line in my father's Gospel that came to mind."
"'Who among you, if his son asks for an egg, will hand him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will hand him a scorpion?'" he quotes.
". . . well, that and the one about the widow. . ."
"And the unjust judge. The one who yielded to persistence. Yes. I've read those." He resumes walking. "From what you've said, your parents set great store by them."
The sand makes interesting noises under my feet. "Yes, Sir."
"How many does this make it?"
"Eight, Reverend Sir."
"That's what I thought." There are birds passing overhead in the distance; he lifts his eyes to them, dark-robed arms together behind his back. "Shrimp. . . you're still doing it."
"Doing what, sir?"
"Trying to live in his way." He stops, and looks at me, not unkindly. "If it didn't work for you when you lived under his roof and went to his church, what makes you think that you'll find enough strength in it to convince him now?"
"But he has to listen! It's right from his own-"
"Ah." The abbot holds up one hand. "Stop right there. Finish that sentence inside your head before you open your mouth again.
Oh. . .
The abbot nods. "There you are," he says gently.
"So . . ." I'm just standing here, staring at him, the sand under my feet and the wind starting to pick up overhead. "What do I do now?"
The abbot shrugs. "There's an old saying for times like this," he says, almost smiling. "Even in this country. 'If you don't stop picking at it, it won't heal.'"
"Yes, Reverend Sir."
------------------
Dial the USA country code. Wave off the girl looking to use the booth. Wait while it rings.
A very, very tired voice on the other end, a voice older by more than a year than last time. "Hsiang residence. James speaking."
There is something in my chest and it's holding up my heart as I form the words. "Dad. . . it's me."
Silence.
"I need to talk to you."
Silence.
"Please?"
". . .all right."
Kill that fear of emptiness,
loneliness I hide. . .
Dad listened. It took a year and a half before he'd even try, but he listened. He sent his own son away - a Chinese man sending his own son, his heir, the one who'd followed in his footsteps when his brother had failed. That's just about the most impossible thing you can do, but he did it. . . but in the end he listened.
River, oh, river, river running deep
The Robinsons. . . I saw my father there. Some trace of him, something like him, somewhere down underneath all of it.
Bring me something
To let me get to sleep
My father meant well, I know that now. He wanted what any father wants - something good for his children. He wanted a better life than he had, and he wanted us to have the same wonderful afterlife with his beloved God. He saw incomprehensible ingratitude and a rejection he hadn't even imagined, and he did what he had to in order to survive it. I hurt him, badly, and he answered the only way he knew how. I don't blame him. And I'm glad we made up, before I left for the voyage into the unknown.
The Robinsons. . . no. They wanted something good for their children, too, but. . . whatever it was that prompted it, there was no love there. Real love, honest love, doesn't stoop to horror. Compassion doesn't employ atrocity. They were willing to do anything to get what they wanted. My father could've done that, could've made me stay, but he didn't. He knew. . .
In the washing of the water will you take it all away
I saw my father's face in them and for that I gave them more than they were due. I could not have fought them if I tried, because I saw what was not there and that would have stayed my hand. I might have swayed their minds, if I'd had the stomach for it; I know I have enough strength for that sort of thing, where there is the will to go with it. I might have changed their bodies, had I had more will to do so. I might have stung them with pain for just long enough to drop their weapons, so that we could go free without violence. I could even have fought them. Adam was there. Martin was strong with anger. Everyone would have fought, and we would have won. It was what I thought I saw that stopped me, and made me think there was some hope, something of goodness that could be touched.
For me there was a rock and a pool, for my father the boulder and the puddle; but for the Robinsons there was only a bottomless well, torn open by their own choice. A stone thrown into that well would have fallen hopelessly, forever.
Bring me something to take this pain away.
I have done my father the grossest kind of injustice, by allowing myself to believe I saw him in them. And I have done my companions an equal wrong, by allowing that wrong judgment, that cloud of illusion, to tinge my thoughts and actions. For the sake of a delusion I did not even recognize I nearly got us all killed. So many wasted chances, spent for the sake of a lie. . .
But as long as there is life, there is a chance, and so the question is: how do I atone for this?
It had long since gone dark, and the stars were beginning to come out. Ho rose from his knees and stood, looking around the ship as he shook out first one leg and then the other.
"There you are," came a voice he recognized. Kate. Mentally he braced himself; this wasn't a time for him to tell anyone how to think or what to do. "The guys in the kitchen are looking for you."
He nodded, murmuring a relieved thanks, and turned to head for the cabin.
"Hey," came Kate's voice from behind him, "where've you been, anyway? Nobody could find you before."
Ho shrugged. "Duck hunting," he said, and closed the door behind him.
