The Love Wife by Gish Jen

not going to kill me.
    — Okay, then, she said. Blondie going to kill me.
    I did not respond to that.
    — You listen to me, she said. I offer you one million dollars. Cash.
    She banged her open hand on the table in front of her for emphasis.
    — I’m going to marry her if it kills us both, I said finally. Adding, preemptively: — You may disinherit whom you like.
    The ‘whom’
felt funny in my mouth, like a largish pillow mint that had suddenly materialized on my tongue. Of course, we had always spoken in English. She had brought me up English-speaking. In general, though, I spoke in short sentences with her, employing a limited vocabulary. Eschewing subordinate phrases. Never before had I used this sort of English with her—English-major English. The mint was still there. Perhaps she had not noticed how I had thrown at her the fancy education for which she had paid?
    In the next room, tables were being pushed together.
    Finally she said: — What time is it?
    I told her.
    And in a voice so weak it seemed a kind of aftertaste, she said: 
— You are not my son. You can do whatever you want, I do not care.
    — Ma.
    — No heir, so what? Anyway, we are live in America now, right?
    — Ma.
    — When I come to this country, she began; then she stopped, as if forgetting what she had just said, and what came next. Then she started again: — When I come to this country, I did not know I end up here alone.
    She asked yet once more what time it was.
    — You’re wearing a watch, I said. In fact, you’re wearing two watches.
    — What time is it? she asked, like a broken toy. —What time is it?
    She did not stay for the dinner. When the Baileys came I explained that my mother was indisposed. Her place setting was discreetly removed.
    The festivities proceeded according to plan. The restaurant chairs were over-designed, the hors d’oeuvres over-engineered. Still, people were laughing and jumping up and changing seats; the Baileys liked to change seats. There were limericks, replete with off-color off-rhyme. At one point, I danced with the chef. At another, my bride-
to-be was set on a large platter on the table.
    I drank as much as anybody, though I knew I was turning red. I told jokes. Then I left on the early side to check on my mother. Everyone understood; in fact, Janie—then she was still Janie—offered to come with me. I insisted she stay.
    — The hero must face the dragon alone, I said.
    One last swig of wine.
    I found Mama Wong in her hotel room, darkly raiding the honor bar and snack basket.
    — Are you drunk? she demanded.
    There were opened cans and bottles and wrappers everywhere.
    — No, I said.
    I softened her up by ordering room service. Steak tartare, I began with, knowing she would be outraged and insist on sending it back.
    She did.
    I ordered a bowl of consommé; we sent that back too.
    I ordered lobster eggrolls, figuring that though she would complain about what passed for Chinese cooking, she would eat them.
    She ate them.
    We ordered more eggrolls.
    We admired the vase of carnations on the food cart.
    I showed her how to work the safe in her room. I pillaged the bathroom amenities basket with her. I hid the honor bar price list and let her believe that all those snacks and drinks she had tried were indeed free (taking advantage of the fact that she rarely traveled and, if she did, always stayed in the cheapest joint she could find). When the turn-down lady came, I lobbied for extra chocolates.
    — Free! I told my mother.
    Still I could only convince her to come to the wedding by promising to start a family business once I was married.
    — We’ll be partners, I heard myself saying, my voice as soothing as the room lighting. — Blondie will be our property manager.
    If only I were drunker than I was.
    — You really think we can trust that Blondie?
    Mama Wong’s voice miraculously replumped, like an apparently dead plant that’s finally been watered. Her face beamed.