Wedding Banquet

Wedding Banquet

By Ernest Leong

God knows my father had his faults, but when it came to business, he could see far ahead. Before America entered World War II, he knew when they did, all the young sons would enlist, including Chinese laundrymen’s sons. And the laundrymen here would need help keeping up with the cleaning and ironing. So he came up with the idea of starting a shirt press and wet wash company. He called it Shun Yee Shing Long (translation: “business is thriving and booming”).

True to its name, the business took off, especially after Pearl Harbor. We covered the Bronx, Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. We got so busy we had to hire extra help, and buy another shirt press machine. Even then, we barely kept up.

But no matter how busy we got, sometimes we’d have a lull. During those rare down moments, my older brother Kevin would go out with the driver Bob and help pick up loads of laundry in Manhattan. One day, they stopped at a laundry in Hell’s Kitchen.

While Kevin was loading the van, and Bob waited for the laundryman to pay his bill, he noticed a young woman peeking out at Kevin from the back room.

When they got back, Bob told everyone about it. Our workers were divided into two groups: Chinese and English speakers. The Chinese workers smiled and listened quietly but didn’t say anything. The English (white) workers kidded Kevin about his new “girlfriend”.

Later, Father pulled Kevin aside.

“Well?” Father asked tersely in Toysanese.

“Well, what?” Kevin looked shyly down.

“Do you like her?”

“How do I know?” My brother said, shrugging defensively. “I don’t even know her name.”

“Which laundry was it?”

“The one on Eighth Avenue and 50th.”

Father pulled out a notebook from under the counter.

“Mongs,” he nodded. “Good people. I’ll put out some feelers.”

“Father,” Kevin began, “maybe you…”

Father frowned down at him.

“Is this about joining the Army?”

“All my friends in church have gone,” Kevin pointed out.

“Church?” Father snorted. “I thought Christianity was a peaceful religion.”

“Chinese are mostly Buddhist,” I put in. “They’re pacifists, but they’re fighting,”

“They’re fighting for their lives,” Father said. “Very different.”

“It’s just, it isn’t right I stay here,” Kevin said, his face reddening. “An entire world at war. I need to get in the fight and help.”

“You are helping – helping me,” Father said.

He put a hand on Kevin’s shoulder.

“Son, war is only about death,” Father observed. “What this marriage can be…”

“Marriage already? Jeez!”

“It can be a chance at new life in our newly adopted country.”

His thin lips broke into a rare smile. “Isn’t that worth doing?”

“Well, I…” Kevin started. He looked up at Father’s happy face. “Yeah, sure.”

* * *

That night, we continued our usual routine, listening to the news on the radio while eating supper. It was our regular simple meal during the work week: rice and salted fish (which smells strong). No matter how good business was, Father always needed to save money, and he would only serve this during the week. When the report was finished, Father turned the radio off.

“We continue to beat the Japanese,” Father observed.

“Island hopping is working,” I added.

“Looks like the Allies are doing just fine without you,” he said pointedly at Kevin.

Kevin frowned at his bowl of rice. I wrinkled my nose while picking at the salty fish.

“Stop that,” Father scolded me. “Pick it up or leave it alone.”

“Can’t we have fresh meat and vegetables sometimes?” I asked.

“We’ll have it this weekend as usual. Fish is good for you. Eat it.”

“War’s not over yet,” Kevin said quietly. “We still have a long way to go.”

Father looked up at our world map. We had colored pins showing the latest Allied and Axis movements.

“Allies are winning,” Father repeated.

Kevin put down his chopsticks. As he got up, he repeated:

“Long way to go.”

* * *

Father slept on the ironing tables in front; Kevin and I shared a twin bed in back. I was asleep when I felt the mattress bounce. I looked up and saw my brother was at the table. His hair was tousled. He was reading the last letter we got from Mom in Macau. A moment later, he looked up at the world map.

“Kevin?”

“What are you doing up?” he asked, without looking back at me.

“What are you?” I countered.

“Keep your voice down,” he said quietly. “You’ll wake Father.”

I walked over to him.

“I remember when I got on the Liberty ship at Shanghai,” he said quietly. “We set sail right before the Japanese started bombing it.”

I remembered too. Those days, my family was still in our home village, Dong Sing Li. When a neighbor told us the news, Mom was at the kitchen table, chopping up some ginger. We weren’t sure he escaped; the timing was that close.

Mom was quiet for a long time.

Then finally, with a heavy sigh, she said: “Well, looks like I’ve lost a son.”

Kevin snapped me out of my reverie when he spoke.

“Got to come back and fight,” he whispered. “That’s what I swore as I looked back at Shanghai and saw the Japanese bombers coming in.”

“Don’t be foolish,” I said. “We need you here.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Iron and fold. Go pick up the wet wash with Bob. Any idiot can do that.” He winked and playfully slapped at me. “Even you.”

I giggled and hit him on the arm. But I felt an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“You’re 1-A, right?” I asked. 1-A means the draft board decided he was physically fit to fight.

“Yeah.”

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t volunteer. Wait until they draft you. It won’t be long.”

“Why?”

“Father can’t be angry at you,” I said with a shrug. “Not your fault.”

Kevin smiled gently.

“Pretty smart, little brother,” he said.

“And you can spend some time with your girlfriend,” I said with a wink.

“Jeez, you too?” Kevin snorted. He gently pushed me back to bed.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

A moment later, he added, “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

* * *

Quick general note on Chinatown: it’s set up more or less like our village back home. We’re a close-knit society, everybody knows each other. So it was no surprise when, a week later, Chin Yuan visited our business. Yuan was good friends with Chin Mong Yin, the father of the shy girl peeking at Kevin. They both belonged to the Chin family association.

He came to tell Father that Mong’s daughter, Clara, liked Kevin.

“Well, son?” Father suppressed a smile as he looked at Kevin.

“I don’t know.”

Father looked at the wallet size photo of Clara Yuan gave him.

“She’s attractive,” he said. “Looks healthy.”

Kevin stared down at the floor.

“Know what else? They say the Exclusion Act could be lifted soon,” Father observed. “Not only can we finally start a family here, we can bring your mother and sister over. They can help baby sit.”

Kevin’s frown grew deeper as he thought about this.

“Bring Mom over…”

“Wouldn’t it be great?” Father asked louder.

Kevin looked over at me before answering.

“It would.”

* * *

Kevin and Clara started dating – and I got to be their chaperone. They looked happy enough to be together, though Kevin seemed to be distracted at times. But I was happy, as I got to see some first run movies and eat out every night.

Our favorite movie was the Bob Hope/Bing Crosby movie, Road to Morocco. Though I was still struggling with my English, Hope’s double takes always made me laugh, and Clara enjoyed listening to Crosby sing. I agreed, he had a great voice. No wonder Dorothy Lamour preferred him.

Since things were going so well, romantically and with our business, Father rented a railroad apartment near our shirt press company.

“You and Clara can have the front room,” he announced to Kevin. As usual, Kevin said nothing.

Father and I took the middle room, and we rented the back room to one of our workers who knew how to operate the shirt press machine.

A month later, Kevin and Clara were married at the Chinese Presbyterian Church. In those days, the church was a storefront church on 31st Street, near Penn Station. It wouldn’t move to its current address on Henry Street until later.

One afternoon, while I was working on one of the shirt press machines, Kevin came in and showed Father a letter. It was from the Selective Service, telling him he had been drafted.

“I’ll get you a deferment,” Father said.

“No, Father,” Kevin said gently, but firmly.

Father started to respond, until he saw Kevin’s determined face.

“You’re always quoting Confucius to us,” Kevin pointed out. “What does he say about fighting?”

“Fighting is the option of last resort,” Father answered.

“Unless the war is a just one, such as to defend against aggression,” Kevin countered.

“Now isn’t the time for arguing philosophy,” Father snapped at him.

“I’m not arguing,” Kevin said. “I’ve already decided. I’m going.”

Father started to angrily respond.

“Confucius also said a decision should be made based on virtue rather than personal gain,” Kevin added. He took a step closer to him.

“Father, you taught me to always follow the path that is right. I want to help fight evil. Tell me how that’s wrong, and I won’t go.”

Father’s face reddened. He didn’t say anything for several seconds. Finally, he let out a tired sigh.

“What about Clara?”

“I don’t have to report for another month,” Kevin said. “I’ll see if she wants to get married before I go.”

“What if she doesn’t?” I asked.

“Then I will respect her wishes,” my brother said.

* * *

Happily, she accepted Kevin’s proposal. We had a big party at Port Arthur, a beautiful, big Chinese restaurant on Mott Street. I sat at a round table with some white and Chinese workers. The Chinese politely but steadily cleaned off the huge plates of gourmet food.

The white workers were hungry, but unsure. They didn’t like the look of some of the dishes, like seaweed soup. Some said it looked like dark wet hair.

“It’s delicious,” I told them in English. And to prove my point, I swallowed a spoonful. “See, I’m still alive. Try it!”

They did, and they liked it. As we ate, they became more interested in what each dish was. I gladly explained it to them. Once they understood, they eagerly ate.

I also told them the symbolic significance of each dish. Roast pig, for example, symbolized the bride’s purity. When the waiters brought out the shrimp and scallops, I told them the Chinese character for scallops also means “bring a boy,” while shrimp in Chinese sounds like laughter (“ha”). In other words, we hoped they would have a son and wished them joy and happiness in the marriage. Chicken and lobster served whole (with head and tail) symbolized the bride and groom; and the noodle dish (served last) symbolized longevity. And so on.

I was grateful for the chance to explain our cuisine and traditions. It helped me to forget, if only for a moment, that my brother would be leaving soon, and might never come back.

Sometimes I looked up at Kevin and his new bride sitting at the dais. They were both smiling and even kissed when the guests tapped their glasses. But I also sensed sadness behind their smiles. At one point, I thought I saw Clara discreetly wipe a tear from her eye.

I thought back to when my big sister, Ping Gim, got married back in Dong Sing Li. She wore a red bridal gown and a red veil which covered her face. Her ah-ma was close by.

In a Chinese wedding, the ah-ma has certain duties. One of them was to carry the bride on her back to the sedan chair outside, where four men conveyed her to the wedding. Ping Gim’s feet weren’t supposed to touch the ground until she was with her husband.

Ping Gim’s wedding was more colorful and happier, I thought. There was an underlying sadness and urgency to this one.

As the meal progressed, Kevin went around to each table and accepted good luck toasts with a glass of cognac. When he got to our table, he leaned in and whispered to me:

“You’re next.”

I smiled back, but wondered what he meant: was I next to get married, or go to war?

Clara made the rounds of each table as well with her ah-ma.

The ah-ma walked with Clara to each table holding a tray with 10 cups of tea. The guests would offer red envelopes filled with cash in return for a cup to toast the bride. In those days, Chinatown was a “bachelor society”, mostly men and not many women around. There weren’t many weddings, so the guests generously offered a lot of money for the tea.

“Gung hay!” The Chinese guests called out. That’s Cantonese for “congratulations” or “wishing you joy.”

“Good luck!” “Cheers!” The white guests said as Kevin and Clara each made their rounds.

Clara and the ah-ma came to our table. I gladly handed them the red envelope Father gave me to give them. As I drank the tea, I wondered what my wedding would be like. Or would I even get married at all?

* * *

After the reception was over, Father and I drove the newlyweds back to the apartment in our delivery truck. Kevin and Clara sat quietly in the back. They hardly said anything, just clung to each other.

Father double-parked outside our building. The newlyweds thanked him and climbed out. I started to get out too, but Father held me back.

“We’ll sleep at the store tonight,” he said.

I nodded in understanding.

At the store, I climbed into bed in the back. I was tired, but I didn’t feel sleepy. I thought about all we’d been through as a family in America: me, Kevin, and Father. I also wondered how Mom and my sister and her husband were doing in Macau. Macau was neutral so the Japanese were supposed to stay out. But Geneva was a long way away.

I shut my eyes and tried to force myself to sleep. But I still couldn’t: I heard whispering. I tiptoed to the doorway to the front room.

I saw Father, on his knees, praying. Sometimes his voice would crack with emotion and he’d sob.

I tiptoed back to bed. And I wept too.