Now he was my uncle.
She looked at my father. “At least that means he doesn’t expect to stay with us.”
This didn’t sound like my mother at all. It seemed a little inhospitable for the legendary Uncle Ho to come all the way from Shanghai and not stay with us, if only for an overnight. We had a guestroom with its own bath, so it isn’t as though we didn’t have the space. But I kept my mouth shut.
My mother handed the letter back to my father. “He’s arriving tomorrow. You didn’t tell me that.”
The level of electricity between them had just shot up. I decided to make myself scarce. I put my Coke can in the recycling bin, mumbled that I’d be back later and went out the side door, grabbing my basketball out of habit. It was hot, but I was used to it. The court was about three blocks away. Some of the guys were bound to be there. A few shots and another pickup game wouldn’t be bad. Then I’d run home and get cleaned up again in the outside shower. I didn’t remember much about Chicago, but in terms of climate the change had been a great trade.
At supper that night we sat down to the stir-fry and steamed rice and Dad gave me the news. “We’ve decided to meet Uncle Ho’s plane. His flight from Los Angeles gets in at four tomorrow afternoon. We’ll let him decide if he wants to spend time with us.”
Somehow I didn’t think Uncle Ho would be satisfied with a quick hello at the airport, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent us the letter. But my parents were feeling their way, and there was no point in my adding to their confusion.
“How will we recognize him?”
“Your mother thought of that. We’ll take along a sign with his name on it, put it on a stick and hold it up. That way he will be able to find us. Maybe you could take care of the sign, James.”
“Sure. What should it say? Uncle Ho?”
My mother was quick to answer. “No. Mr. Ho.”
“Got it.”
The other thing they decided was not to call the relatives just yet. “It’s better if we wait until Uncle Ho gets here. There will be more to tell them after that.”
It’s hard to remember exactly what happened that next day, except that there were more surprises. We left for the airport with lots of time to spare. My parents were nervous. I was curious. When we got there, parked the car and started for the terminal, I was carrying the sign. There weren’t a lot of people around. Sunday can be a sleepy day. A lot of people go to church, although it was a little late in the day for that.
I was the first to see him, seated on a bench off to the side of the terminal entrance, in the shade of some eucalyptus trees. He was holding a sign with his name on it. He saw mine. We waved our signs at each other. His baggage was alongside him, not very much-a small suitcase and two square boxes, tied with heavy cord. A bamboo pole was threaded through a loop at the top of each box. They were identical, cube-shaped, the size that could hold a basketball.
My father apologized for being late, even though we were early. He explained we thought the plane wasn’t due for another half-hour.
It turned out Uncle Ho hadn’t come by plane. Someone had driven him from Los Angeles.
“Where are all the others?” my mother asked.
Uncle Ho looked puzzled. “Others?” he repeated.
“Your traveling companions. Your letter said you were coming with a group.”
He nodded. “They will come later. They are taking a trip to the Grand Canyon.”
Through the years, without really knowing it, I’d formed my own image of Uncle Ho-someone sort of ancient, drawn in charcoal, stepping out of the pages of an old storybook. Since yesterday, I had been trying to recast him as a high roller, wooed to Las Vegas by big gambling interests. I couldn’t get it to work. And now, here he was, in the flesh. What I saw didn’t match anything I had imagined.
It was hard for me to get a fix on his age. His hair was thick like mine, but streaked with a lot of silver. He wasn’t real old, but he sure wasn’t young. He would have been ordinary looking if it weren’t for the scar that ran from the center of his forehead down to his left eyebrow. I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d got that. It must have been some gash. Blood must have poured into his eyes.
The pajamalike pants and gray quilted jacket he was wearing sure made him look more like a peasant than a millionaire. But a lot of Chinese dress that way. Besides, during the Cultural Revolution, Uncle Ho had been a peasant. He’d been sent to the countryside to work in the rice fields. According to all the stories I’d heard, he had died there, drowned in a ditch. It wasn’t an accident.
I was a bit surprised by what my father said then, but Mom wasn’t having any trouble with it, so I guessed they must have worked it out.
“Uncle Ho, we would be glad to take you to your hotel, but if you would like to come to our house, you are welcome.”
Uncle Ho stared ahead for a minute and then responded with a nod. “I would be glad to go to your house.”
My father motioned to Uncle Ho’s suitcase. I picked it up. Uncle Ho reached for the bamboo pole and brought it to his right shoulder, balancing one box in front of him and the other behind. Another charcoal drawing slid across my mind.
My parents led the way. Uncle Ho followed and I took up the rear. We were an odd little procession.
At the car my mother suggested Uncle Ho sit up front with my father. I helped him with the seat belt. We didn’t usually drive along the Strip, unless we had to, but Dad thought it was a good idea to show Uncle Ho where he would be spending his time when he hooked up with the rest of his group.
As we approached the skyline of hotels, archways and towers,brightly lit even in broad daylight, Uncle Ho leaned forward. He nodded. “I have seen many pictures in travel brochures. But it is different, when it is real. It reminds me of when I went to Beijing for the first time and saw the Forbidden City. It can be described, but it cannot be imagined.”
Our house was in one of those residential communities that have a tidy look about them, uniformly landscaped plots, planted with cactus and shrubs indigenous to the desert, and groundcover that doesn’t need much water. Ours was a two-story with a two-car garage. On the first floor there was a large family room, kitchen and dining area, and my parents’ bedroom. The second floor had three bedrooms.
My parents left it to me to take Uncle Ho upstairs. I carried his suitcase up first and then came down to help him with the two boxes. He took one and I reached for the other. I’d been expecting it to have some weight, but it was so light, it almost flew out of my hand.
Uncle Ho chuckled. “It flies like a bird, even when the bird is not there.”
I’d already spoken more Chinese that day than I had in a year, but even so I thought I’d misunderstood him. I replayed what I thought he’d said, and it came out the same way. I didn’t get it.
I led the way into the guestroom and showed him where the light switch was and how to work the blinds. I opened the empty bureau drawers, the closet and the door to the bathroom. I demonstrated how the shower worked and decided I didn’t need to show him how to flush the toilet. If he had traveled this far, he knew what that was all about.
“I don’t know your name,” he said to me.
“It’s James.”
“That is short, like my name. Ho.”
There were a lot of questions I would have liked to ask him, but it didn’t feel right just yet. I said he probably wanted to unpack and take a rest. He should come down when he felt like it, or I would knock on his door when my mother had supper ready.
Back downstairs I saw that my parents’ bedroom door was closed. I could imagine the questions they were asking each other.