No More Maybe

Since my mother-in-law came to visit America she is quite busy. First, she has to eat many blueberries. Because in China they are expensive! While here they are comparatively cheap. Then she has to breathe the clean air. My husband, Wuji, and I have lived here for five years, so we are used to the air. But my mother-in-law has to take many fast walks. Breathing, breathing. Trying to clean out her lungs, she says, trying to get all the healthy oxygen inside her. She also has to look at the sky.

“So blue!” she says during the daytime. “I have not seen such a blue since I was a child.”

At nighttime, she says, “Look at the stars. Look! Look!”

She has to post pictures of the stars on WeChat for her friends. And she has to take some English-language classes. Because these classes are expensive in China! she says. Here they are free.

She thinks this is very strange.

“Why are they free?” she asks. She says, “America is a capitalist country. What about so-called ‘market force’?” “Market force” sticks out of her Chinese like a rock in a path. “And what about so-called ‘invisible hands’?” she goes on, and there it is—another rock.

“ ‘Invisible hand,’ ” my father-in-law says. Because he is the professor in the family, and the one who knows everything.

And, in fact, my mother-in-law only just learned about the invisible hand two days ago. Even yesterday she called Adam Smith “Alan Smith.” But, in China, she was a volleyball coach. She has a lot of self-confidence. She talks with her chin in the air. Even though she is retired, she uses only the top half of her bifocals. It is as if she is still watching some game, looking for weakness on the other side of the net. And, sure enough, look: already she has found something fake about America. America calls itself capitalist, but no one should be fooled. It is China that is capitalist.

“You know what free classes are?” she says. “Free classes are socialism!”

If my father-in-law likes to make points, my mother-in-law likes to score points.

Now my father-in-law hides his face in his rice bowl. Only his chopsticks move. It is as if he is trying to scratch a small, small message inside the bowl. One line. Two lines. Still scratching. We think maybe he cannot explain the free English lessons, either. Or maybe he just needs time to prepare his explanation. He was an outstanding thinker when he was young. But since he retired he has crazy, wild hair, like that conductor Seiji Ozawa, and his thinking is crazy wild, too.

We talk to help him. Try to make him comfortable, try to smooth things over.

“America is very strange,” I say.

“It is not socialism,” Wuji says. “It is capitalism with American characteristics.”

“It is politically correct capitalism,” I say.

Because this is what we know how to do. We know how to say something true enough to hide a bigger truth. We know how to hide people’s weakness. How to protect them.

Of course, when he was young my father-in-law also protected people. Every day there was a new kind of craziness. Every day a new kind of corruption. He had a lot to manage. Still, no matter how bad the situation got he protected us and a lot of other people besides. It was a big talent he had, a real strength. We all remember it and appreciate what he did. But now that he is older he sometimes scatters seed for the chickens, as they say. He stirs things up instead of calming things down. Maybe this is what couples do when they do not have sex. That is what Wuji says.

I think Wuji is full of such theories because I am too pregnant for sex.

Now my father-in-law’s chopsticks stop scratching. He lowers his bowl.

“Maybe the government watches to see who comes to the English lessons,” he says. “Maybe that is why they are free.”

“That is crazy!” my mother-in-law says. “Watching everyone is a lot of work. Do you think Americans will do that kind of work? Only Chinese will do it. Americans are too lazy.”

“Maybe it is a trap,” my father-in-law says.

“What is there to trap?” my mother-in-law says. “Who wants to know that I’m taking English lessons? No one. I am nobody. No one is interested.”

“Everyone knows the government here spies on people, just like in China,” my father-in-law says. “Look at that movie ‘Snowden.’ They spy here, too. They do.”

He reaches slowly for some steamed fish from the dish in the middle of the table. My mother-in-law takes her glasses off, as if the score is tied and she is ready to fight the other coach. So now poor Wuji has to say something. He is kind of like the ump.

“Yes, they spy in the U.S.,” he says. “But it is not just like China. Here there are many more laws to protect the common citizen.”

Wuji is careful because even an ump must know how to handle my father-in-law. He must first agree with his father, and only afterward disagree.

Still, my father-in-law argues. “Every government is the same,” he says. “What if that person is so-called ‘illegal immigrant,’ right? You go to the free English classes. Then what? Then they catch you.”

And suddenly we think, even if the classes were not originally a trap, maybe they are a trap now. We think maybe my father-in-law is still smart. We think maybe we should listen to him.

After all, even though we are here legally, we see all the stories on the Internet. People are being stopped! People on buses. People even in hospitals. We carry our visas everywhere, and keep a list of places we should not go. Texas. New Hampshire. Alabama. Also, we do not talk too much to outside people. Of course, we do not talk too much to them anyway, because this is a city. People do not talk here; they honk. Honk, honk, honk! You are in my way! If they talk, they are yelling. What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you speak English? But these days we talk even less. In fact, we are almost starting to think maybe my mother-in-law should not go to that English-language class, when she says, “If you think you can stop me from studying English, you can’t! This is America! You can’t!”

Her eyes glare so hard at my father-in-law that he ducks back into his rice bowl. Not as though he is backing down—more as though he has thought of something else and has some more scratching to do.

So that is score one point for my mother-in-law.

Actually, for my mother-in-law English has no use. But she has always wished she could speak English like my father-in-law, who was a literature professor. It was just her bad luck that she took the college-entrance exam in 1977—the first time you could take it after the Cultural Revolution. She is still talking about how fierce the competition was. Two generations, both had to take the examination together, she says. All the teachers and all the students, sitting side by side. She says today she would probably get a top score and go to a top college, like my father-in-law. Because he was smart but also just lucky that he did so well. And he agrees. Some people did well who were not so smart, he says, and some people did not do well, though they were very smart. He agrees that today my mother-in-law would probably be outstanding, especially since, if you don’t like your score, you can try again. So she would probably try eight, nine, ten times! Until she succeeded.

She is not like Wuji or me, who were not outstanding but did not work so hard, either. We went to third-tier colleges and wished we had scored higher, of course, but did not care so much. Wuji says maybe this was because there was some money in his father’s family, and even I knew ever since high school that Wuji and I would get married. So both of us knew we would have to work hard but would not have to work crazy hard just to live. Also, his parents are kind of like a fire generation. After a fire generation, it is only natural to have a water generation.

And, actually, my mother-in-law could relax a little, too. But she was always crazy worried when she was growing up, and now she is a person who studies even when it has no use. She says that, now that my father-in-law’s English is declining, if she studies maybe they can meet like two roads. Maybe if her English goes up while his goes down they can meet at an intersection.

“And then what?” I ask.

“Then I will wave and say, ‘Hi,’ ” she says, with a wink. “Then I will say, ‘How are you, Professor? I can speak English, too.’ ”

Of course, it is completely absurd. But it is also sad. I feel sorry for my mother-in-law. It is as if she was born inside a box, so she can never really stand up straight. My mother always says I pity people I should not pity, and she is probably right. She says I am too soft. Because, after all, my mother cannot really stand up straight, either, and at least my mother-in-law has plenty to eat. My mother does not have plenty to eat. Still, when my father-in-law looks up from his rice, ready to fight again, I quickly say, “The baby is kicking!”

He laughs a little then, as if to say, “You Chinese girls are so obvious.” And, “Why does everyone have to manage me?” But he lets go, too. He does not say anything and he does not fight with my mother-in-law. Because the baby is why they came. They came because Wuji and I are having a baby, and because they could afford to come. They are not like my mother, who has been on her own since my father died and can only Skype. And, of course, no one wants to upset the baby—and if I am upset he will be upset. That is how Chinese people think. One thing always affects something else. So for now we have peace. I reach down and tell the baby, “Sh-h-h, sh-h-h.” He kicks hard on one side, a real boy. Everyone is so happy I am having a boy. And, on the other side, there is his round head. It is soft-hard, like a volleyball.

The English teacher recommends an English-language app. My father-in-law tells my mother-in-law, “Do not install it!” Though she can only say a few words so far, already he has had enough of her learning English to compete with him. But while she is out walking he picks up her phone and there it is. A little orange square on the screen.

“Did you help her?” my father-in-law asks me.

I nod, because in fact he already knows the answer. My mother-in-law cannot upload, download anything, after all. And Wuji would not dare defy his father to help. But I nod very gently, with both hands on top of my belly.

“No one can stop her, anyway,” he says then. Meaning, “At least you answered honestly and did not insult my intelligence.”

I nod again. “She will never stop,” I say.

“That is true,” he says. And he looks happy just to have this little conversation. To have someone agree with him, the way everyone used to.

Often, I drive my mother-in-law to the beautiful library, with the glass walls and the café. There are all kinds of people there, including black people and a lot of people you cannot say what color they are. You can only say they like books. My mother-in-law does not mind the people. Every day she finds a DVD to check out so she can practice her English some more after class. And then I pick her up so she can cook for me.

Actually, I help a lot when she cooks for me. Especially, I help with the shopping and the chopping. But she does the planning and the cooking, because my baby will be born in two months now, and she wants me to eat all kinds of special food. On the outside, my mother-in-law is a modern sportswoman. But inside she is a traditional type. So I take American prenatal vitamins and calcium and DHA, of course. But also she feeds me steamed egg porridge with rice, and millet porridge. I have a glass of milk, red dates, fruit, and nuts every day. Tofu and bean sprouts every other day. And a lot of soups: pork-rib soup with lotus seeds or Chinese yam. Hen soup with mushrooms and more red dates. Soybean-and-pork-trotter soup. Even swallow’s-nest soup, which is very expensive. Because I am in my seventh month and my body has heated up, and because my mother-in-law has an app that says it’s O.K., I am allowed to have some cooling foods I could not have before. For example, some of her blueberries with a little ice cream. In China, there are pregnant women who eat a lot of blueberries. They think it will make their baby’s eyes shiny and round. But my mother-in-law says that is illogical thinking. She will let me have only a few.

Very important, too, everyone wants me to rest. “Take it easy,” they all say. “Go slow, go slow.” They say, “Rest, rest.” But how can anyone rest when my mother-in-law is cooking and learning English?

My father-in-law is not as busy as my mother-in-law. But he feels he has to keep up with her. Of course, he used to be very active, too. Wuji says his father used to have so many ideas he had to put a piece of paper next to his bed at night in order to write them all down. Only then could he go back to sleep. And now he still puts a piece of paper next to his bed. But in the morning it is almost always blank. If he writes something, he says he cannot read it. The writing is unclear. When he watches my mother-in-law’s DVDs, too, he nods as if he still understands everything. But then he complains. Why does she have to bring so many DVDs home? And why a new one every night, each one with faster speaking than the last? Another day, he complains she is so active she walks her legs even in her sleep.

“As if she is going somewhere!” he says.

Still, to keep up with her my father-in-law moves things around. For example, he does not think the feng-shui of our apartment is very good. So he moves a bookcase to the entrance of the apartment. The bookcase is not that tall, only chest-high. But still it is a help, he says. A small wall inside the front door, to help block evil spirits from coming in. Then he sees that our bookshelves are not well organized. So, one by one, he takes the books and puts them in the correct order. Now we cannot find anything and have to walk around the bookcase to go out.

He wants to clean everything, too.

“No need, no need!” we say. “Everything is clean already!”

But still he cleans the fridge. Then he cleans the stove. Then he cleans the microwave. Next he fixes the bicycles. He oils Wuji’s bike chain. He repairs my bike basket. Actually, there was nothing wrong with my bike basket. Now it is pushed so far to the back, I cannot clip my light on it. But no one can ask him to put it back to where it was or he will say, “Don’t tell me what to do.” We have to do it quietly, by ourselves.

We are glad when he is all done.

One night in bed, Wuji says, “I told them they can stay as long as they like.”

“How could you promise without talking to me?” I say. “Is that respectful communication? Is that how a husband ought to behave? Does no one consider my feelings? Does my opinion not count at all?”

Before I was pregnant, I did not talk this way. But it is as if my belly is pressing down on my nerves. The bigger my belly, the more I say. Of course, Wuji is sorry. But do I remember? he asks. I agreed before we got married that his parents could come live with us when they got old. Also, he agreed that my mother could come. Remember? Because we are both only children. Our parents are our responsibility. Yes, he should still have told me he was going to raise the topic. But he didn’t have an opportunity, he says. Because he was trying to calm his parents down.

“Again,” I say.

“Yes, again,” he says. “That is my life’s real job. And now I have to calm you down, too. My poor pregnant wife.”

He puts his hands on my moving belly. The baby kicks him and he laughs. “Hey! So strong!” And then I say I understand. Because I feel sorry for him, that he has so many people to calm down. My mother says I do not realize I will end up a servant to everyone. “Soft and capable, the worst combination,” she says. “You will serve everyone, and no one will serve you.” Is that true? Maybe it is a mistake to tell Wuji he is right. Maybe it is a mistake to admit my pregnancy is making me talk crazy. Maybe it is a mistake to say I do not want to make trouble for him. But still I say, “Poor Wuji.” Maybe because, inside, I think, This is the best way for my child.

“At least, if they move here we can buy a bigger place,” he says. “There is that advantage to living in the United States. There is room here. It’s not like China.”

“That is true,” I say. “There is that advantage.”

“Plus, you know, even if we all buy a place together they might not move in right away,” Wuji says. “Maybe they won’t, right? We don’t know.”

“Maybe not,” I agree. “You’re right. We don’t know.”

“And maybe they won’t really like it here, anyway,” Wuji says. “Maybe they’ll miss China and want to go back. Or maybe they’ll go back and forth. A lot of people do that. Go back and forth.”

“You’re right,” I say. “A lot of people do do that. Maybe they will, too.”

“Plus, maybe my father will be fine. We don’t know, right? Maybe my mother will be able to handle him herself.”

“Maybe he will,” I say. “And maybe she will indeed be able to handle him by herself. It’s hard to say. You’re right.”

In China, I had a clothes store. Not a very big store—in fact, quite a small store. Still, my friends would make clothes and I would sell them, and we always made a little money. Because I figured everything out so well, my friends said. Because I made everything so smooth. Though, actually, their designs were outstanding, too. Then Wuji went to the U.S. for his doctorate, and I went with him. Now my store is like a beautiful picture I once saw, a long, long time ago, on Taobao. At first, my friends said they would send me clothes and I could sell them here. So I could still have a store.

“I’m not sure. Maybe the Americans will not like the clothes,” I said at first.

Then, later, I said, “I think the Americans maybe do not like them.”

And now I say, “The Americans just do not like our clothes.”

No more maybe, in other words. Because that is just what happens. One day it is maybe, and then you just know.

My father-in-law says maybe he will wash Wuji’s car.

Of course, he knows that Wuji bought a silver-colored car. Also, he has been in Wuji’s silver car several times. Once, he tested the air-conditioning. Once, he told Wuji he was surprised there was no screen to show you how far away you are from the car behind you. Because all the children of his friends who had cars had that kind of screen, he said. Very useful. Of course, he understands that, in terms of technology, the United States is often quite backward. He knows that in the United States many people still use cash, for example. Still, he said, he was surprised.

Wuji agreed then that the United States was backward. But his car had no screen, he said, because his car was a used car.

“Ah,” his father said.

“My car is an old model. Too old to have that kind of screen,” Wuji said.

“Ah,” his father said again. Then he said, “It is because you are only a lecturer. It is because you are not a professor.”

“Yes,” Wuji said. “A lecturer’s salary is quite low.”

He was calm, because in fact he already knew what his father thought. Also, in his heart he would like to be a professor, too.

Still, my mother-in-law said, “Wuji is just as successful as the other sons! He got his Ph.D. in America! And at least he is not a volleyball coach, right?”

“Wuji jumps like an elephant,” my father-in-law said. “He is so slow he has to wave the flies away; he cannot swat them. I do not think he could have become a volleyball coach.”

If Wuji was not the ump in the family, maybe he would feel bad. But, instead, he calmly said, “I am not a coach and I am not a professor. I cannot jump and, truly, I am slow. But I am going to be a father.”

And my father-in-law agreed then that Wuji had accomplished at least one important thing. Because a child born in America is a U.S. citizen. And a U.S. citizen can do anything!

“He is a success!” my mother-in-law said.

My father-in-law nodded.

But now, somehow, when my father-in-law cleans the car, and we go out to the parking lot to inspect it, Wuji’s car does not look all clean and shiny.

“Beautiful!” we say, though we can see that it is not only just as old as before but still quite dirty.

Then my mother-in-law whispers, “Look!”

And that is when we see that the silver car across from Wuji’s car is all clean. Should we point out that Wuji’s car is a Nissan, and that car is a Toyota?

Not even my mother-in-law will try to score that point.

For two days we say nothing. I knit some baby clothes. I water some plants. I help cook. I eat. My mother-in-law has found a special oatmeal place near our house and is interested in the grain, which is milled very fine. It is not like regular oatmeal, she says. It is more like millet. She serves it to me with soy sauce and sesame oil.

“Good for the baby,” she says.

Meanwhile, the shiny car does not move. Every time we go out, it is still there in the parking lot. Clean.

The third day, my father-in-law washes Wuji’s car.

We go outside again. We stand on the cracked asphalt.

“Beautiful!” we say. As if we did not say that the other day.

My father-in-law makes a kind of flower blossom with his lips. Then suddenly his eyes light up and he says, “Is there another silver car I can clean tomorrow?”

We laugh. We laugh because it is funny. We laugh because we are relieved. And we laugh because we want to cry. Because there he is—the man he was before his hair got so long. The man who made jokes and did not argue all day with his wife.

So what to do now about the first clean car? Should we write a note and put it on the windshield? And, if we do, what should the note say?

“It should say, ‘We are so sorry we cleaned the wrong car, but we are from China,’ ” my father-in-law suggests. “It should say, ‘We older people especially only know a few brands of cars. For example, BMW.’ ”

We laugh.

My father-in-law says, “Or else we can write, ‘Those Japanese cars, you know, they all look the same.’ ”

We laugh again.

But Wuji thinks it would be a mistake to write anything.

“You are right, we can write a note,” he says. “That is one approach. But American people don’t like people to touch their things. If they find a dent or a scratch or anything wrong, they will complain. If they can, they will even sue you. So I recommend we not write anything.”

Everyone is quiet. Will my father-in-law feel Wuji is telling him what to do?

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says.

In the end, though, he follows Wuji’s recommendation and does not write anything.

The next day, the doorbell rings. Outside, there is a short black man with a cardboard box. We cannot see him too well because of the bookcase and also the screen door. But we can see that, actually, he is not really black. Actually, he is a rust color, kind of like a fall chrysanthemum. He is wearing bluejeans and a T-shirt, and he is very similar in size to my father-in-law, except for his shoulders and his arms. My father-in-law is quite thin. This man’s muscles bulge out. He is wearing a gold earring, too, kind of like the Buddha, only just one earring, instead of two.

“Hi, my name is Jeff,” he says through the screen. “I heard you cleaned my car.”

He looks friendly. Still, my father-in-law stands between the bookcase and the door as if this Jeff is an evil spirit the bookcase might not be strong enough to keep out. My father-in-law is holding hard on to the apartment doorknob as if to brace himself. He does not open the screen door.

“We did not clean anything,” he says in English. He speaks slowly and clearly.

Jeff raises his eyebrows so high, three deep creases appear on his forehead. The rolls of skin between them look like dragons.

“But our neighbors said they saw you out with a bucket and a sponge,” he says. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Out of all this, my mother-in-law only gets the “thank you.” But, as she has been practicing in English class, she cries, “You’re welcome!”—spiking the words like a volleyball across the room.

Does Jeff feel encouraged by her words? Anyway, he starts again.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he repeats. “I brought you a present.”

We think maybe my father-in-law needs more time to prepare. But we cannot help him. And sure enough, he says, slowly but clearly, “Is that really your car?”

Maybe he is just surprised. A black man with a newer car than Wuji’s. And who knows? Maybe this black man has a screen to show him what is behind the car when he is backing up.

But Jeff thinks something else.

“Did I steal it? Is that what you mean?” Jeff says.

“If you find something wrong, we did not do it,” my father-in-law says.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Jeff says.

“We did not wash your car,” my father-in-law says. His hand is still holding on to the doorknob. “You have no proof.”

“Is that so?” Jeff gives my father-in-law a funny look. Then finally he says, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to leave this cake here anyway.”

He opens the screen door.

“Stop!” my father-in-law says.

But one foot is already inside. Jeff holds the screen door still with his shoulder. Then he opens the lid of the cake box. He props the box on his knee as he writes quickly in the icing with his finger. Then he closes the box and licks his fingertip.

“Here,” he says. He hands the box to my father-in-law.

My father-in-law does not accept it.

“Take it,” Jeff says.

My father-in-law does not move.

“I said take it,” Jeff says again.

“Take it,” Wuji says from behind the bookcase, in Chinese.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” my father-in-law says. But he takes the box.

Jeff leaves, muttering something we cannot hear.

We lock the knob and the bolt, then put the chain on, too.

Later, at dinner, we can see that although the cake originally said “THANK YOU!” on it in fancy blue letters, on top of that is now something else.

“ ‘Fucking As,’ ” my father-in-law says. “ ‘Fucking As.’ ” He frowns.

“I think it means, ‘Fucking Asians,’ ” Wuji says.

My father-in-law still looks confused.

“The blacks do not like us,” Wuji explains. “Because we are too smart.”

“Also, we do not spend money like crazy,” my mother-in-law says.

“They are afraid China is going to surpass America,” I say.

“ ‘Fucking Asians,’ ” my father-in-law says. Then suddenly he says, “I saw that there were two cars. But I thought Wuji’s car must be the new car.”

He says, “I was confused.”

He says, “A lot of English I do not understand anymore.”

This should be my mother-in-law’s happiest moment. Finally, she and my father-in-law have met at an intersection. This is the moment she can wave and say, “Hi! How are you, Professor? I can speak English, too!” But, instead, she is looking down through the bottom of her bifocals. She is batting back tears.

No one moves. Only the baby is turning over and over, as if he is in a washing machine.

“We should give the cake back,” Wuji says after a while.

“We should serve the cake into that man’s windshield!” my mother-in-law says. She holds her hands as if she is ready to toss the cake into the air and punch it.

“Good idea,” Wuji says.

On the way out of the apartment, he carries the cake up high, as if he is in a parade.

“Make sure you hit the Toyota!” my father-in-law jokes in English. “Make sure you don’t hit the Nissan!”

Everyone laughs.

But Jeff’s car is not there. So, when we come back in, we still have the cake.

“Maybe we should scrape off the frosting and see how it looks,” I say.

“Good idea,” Wuji says.

We scrape off the words and, sure enough, the cake looks better. My mother-in-law says, “We should have it with blueberries!” And, in the end, even I get three berries.

Then we turn on the DVD player. The DVD today is “The Sound of Music.”

My father-in-law nods, getting ready to explain everything. He has seen this movie before and knows the story. He is prepared. Of course, in fact we have all seen it. We all know about the children and Maria, and about the brave father who manages the situation so well.

Still, I say, “ ‘The Sound of Music!’ ” as if it is something new.

My father-in-law smiles.

Am I being too obvious? Am I insulting his intelligence?

“You will be a good mother,” he says. “You will manage things very well for your child.” He stops. “And then one day your child will have to manage you.”

And now it is my turn to cry. I cry because he is right. I cry because I am sorry. And I cry because there he is, one more time, under the crazy, wild hair. The professor who knows everything. The professor we will all miss. ♦