Congee

Five hungry blonde girls, sitting pertly on their haunches, holding court in the lounge. You all live on the same floor in the freshman dorm, go to the same classes, but still you take their orders. Marcie, the leader, asks, “You don’t mind, do you?” Of course not. Makes sense why it has to be you. She wants the hot and sour chicken, but, oh, can you please tell them not to slather it in sauce like last time. Jill and Megan pick from the Chef’s Specials section of the menu, dishes so luxurious, three different kinds of fish and shrimp, you can’t fathom ever ordering them for yourself. Rachel chooses the spare ribs – she’ll take a bite from the middle of each one and then toss the whole thing, ignoring the precious hunks of meat still clinging to the bone. And Sam says quietly she’ll have the mixed vegetables, the cheapest thing on the menu besides plain rice or an egg roll. For a minute, your eyes meet hers. The two of you might be more alike than you believed to be possible. But she looks away and, like the rest of them, doesn’t say thank you. You tell your friends you’ll be right back.

The woman on the phone has a rough-hewn accent, “r” and “s” sounds thrusting into “l.” She wants to know if you want extra lice. Closing your eyes, you see her bending over a stack of takeout menus, straining to hear you over the din of oil spitting against hot pans, the radio blaring top 40 hits, the cooks’ fluency in both Mandarin and Spanish smack talk. Her hair is tucked into a low bun, a few grey strands pasted to the nape of her neck. Her fingers are adorned with cuts, burns, blisters from a lifetime of working in a kitchen, unlike yours, which are soft and smooth and weak.

“How long will it be,” you ask, biting back the urge to switch to your second tongue.

“Usually twenty to twenty-five minutes. Your name?”

You hesitate for only a beat. “Marcie. M-A-R-C-I-E.”

At exactly fifteen minutes, you excuse yourself to use the bathroom. Instead, you wait outside, stamping your feet, rubbing your arms, wondering where the delivery man is. His scooter is almost as old as you are, its gears squeaking in protest, the brake requiring a healthy stomp to lodge. You worry about the day that brake decides it’s had enough, sending the rider tumbling into an unforgiving highway shoulder or against the flank of a car. You worry about him traveling to dimly lit buildings, collapsing from exhaustion. He isn’t so young and strong anymore, this delivery man.

When he finally rounds the corner, the scooter tooting a familiar, weary put-put in hello, you swallow the relief puddling in your chest. He takes off his helmet and smiles at you.

“Jia?”

“You’re late,” you say, reaching for the plastic bag.

Ba doesn’t hear. “I wish I had known this was your order. Ma didn’t say anything!”

The door at the entrance bangs open and you jump, but it’s only a boy from the second floor, who brushes past without looking over. Still, you have a horrible feeling that you had been seen.

“Can you just give me-”

“You look too skinny. Do you not like the dining hall food?”

“Please, Ba, the bag?”

Ignoring you, he retrieves a small bundle from the back of the scooter. It’s a chipped metal canister, one you saw every day growing up. Ba’s dinner pail.

“Here. Ma made it special. You’ll like it.” 

And because you know he won’t leave until you take it, you reach over and pry it open. Congee with pork floss, freckles of sesame oil, green scallions, and a cut-up century-old egg. You ate this when you stayed home from school with a fever, saving the best part for last, spooning every drop from the yolk. You loved it. You still do.   

Then you imagine those perfectly upturned noses wrinkling, their shoulders curling in disgust, the bottle-pops of laughter.

That looks like hair! Are you really going to eat that?

You’ll have to throw it out.

“Thanks, Ba.”

He hugs you and you wish you can wad yourself up into the lining of his jacket collar. Tucked away there, you can go back to being ten years old. Standing on a stool to reach the counter, poring over the words on the menu, picking out the misspellings. Ma wielding a cleaver the length of her forearm and whacking ribs apart with beautiful precision, Ba handling a wok pulsing with flames as though it’s a loyal pet. You are beside yourself with how much you love them.

But here you are now, with all these friends who are waiting. You shake him off and promise to call this weekend.

As Ba putters away, you don’t look back or wave, but dart inside, bumping into Sam.

“The food arrived just as I was coming out of the bathroom,” you hurry to explain before she even says anything.

“Okay.” She eyes the bundle as you edge towards a trash can.  What’s that?

You decide you will show her if she asks.

But she doesn’t.

You can still feel Ba shivering right before he let you go.  

“Hey, can you take this food? I need to drop something off in my room. Be right back.” 

“Okay,” Sam repeats.

Nor does she ask why you never want anything when the girls order takeout every Friday from that Chinese restaurant. What was the name again? Jade Dragon. Golden Pagoda. Lucky Panda. All the same, anyway.

In the safety of your room, you take out what Ma made. You think of Ba riding alone at night in his thin jacket, with no gloves. The congee is still warm. You lift it up to your mouth.