The Better Mother

THE UNTOLD

1958


On a sweltering Saturday afternoon, Betty stood at the counter in the curio shop, turning all the bills in the cash register face-up. She was rarely alone here, but Doug had to help a friend move, and the children were at Uncle Kwan’s, celebrating the birthday of one of his impeccably dressed daughters. Betty could never remember their names, mostly because their perfection left a gritty, bitter taste in her mouth. In front of others, though, she smiled and said her poor memory was the result of the girls’ prettiness; who could tell them apart?

She sat on the stool, but stood up again when someone walked by the big front window. Look busy, she thought. Do something. Bending down, she spied a box of unsorted lacquered chopsticks, red and black and ivory. She lined them up on the counter and began matching the pairs, careful to check that each pair was the same length. She hummed.

Betty jumped and looked up when the bells on the door rang violently. This was no pretty tinkle from someone opening the door politely; this was the sound of someone pushing with all her body weight, someone unafraid to announce her arrival.

A tall woman, with sunglasses dangling from a gold chain around her neck, stepped into the shop. She wore a red shirtdress, tightly belted at the waist, and high, delicate, white sandals. Betty stared at the glossy brown curls brushed away from her face and clustered around the back of her head. She put a hand to her own black bobbed hair, which Doug had cut last week, making five snips and declaring that it looked finished enough for him.

The woman looked up and down the aisles, her eyes narrowing in the dim of the store.

“Can I help you?” Betty asked.

She stepped forward and smiled. Betty could see that a fine, translucent dust covered her whole face in a smooth, even layer.

“Yes, honey. I need some paper fans, the more colourful, the better. And since I’m here, I may as well stock up on some of those red silk slippers too. The men love those.” She winked, and Betty fought the urge to wink back.

As Betty gathered up a pile of fans, the woman leaned on the counter and said, “I never tell any of the other girls about this place. I don’t want them copying my act, you know.”

“Your act?”

The woman inspected her red-painted fingernails. “I’m a dancer, sweetheart.” She picked up a fan, unfolded it and began waving it at the base of her neck. “And not the respectable kind either.”

Before Betty could say anything, this woman in red grabbed a second fan and struck a pose, holding one in front of her breasts and the other by her pelvis. She fluttered her hands and the fans seemed to magically hide and reveal all at the same time. She hummed a song Betty used to hear on the radio. Betty blushed, realizing that if this woman had been naked, she would have seen the side of her breast, the skin below her belly button.

Chuckling, the woman threw the fans back down on the counter. “I can tell you enjoyed that. You should come to the club sometime, catch my show.”

Betty giggled, shaking her head. “Oh no, I could never do that.”

“Why not? Lots of ladies come to watch us dance, and not always with their husbands either.”

“Thank you for inviting me, but I am very busy. My children need a lot of attention, you know, especially my son.” Inexplicably, Betty wanted to tell this woman something about herself, something that promised to be as revealing as the short dance she had just witnessed. She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “My husband thinks I baby him. Maybe he’s right.”

“Honey, you should just tell your husband where he can stick it. You’re the mother here. You know what your kids need.”

Betty swallowed a lump in her throat before answering. “I don’t like to argue.”

A loud laugh erupted from the woman’s mouth. “You’ll never get what you want until you learn to speak up. Trust me.”

“Do you have children?” Betty asked, trying to change the subject.

The woman pursed her lipsticked mouth and looked out the front window. “No, not a chance,” she muttered.

She continued to stare at the street until Betty began to wonder if she had gone too far. Or maybe the woman didn’t want to buy the slippers after all. A car slowly drove by, and a beam of sunlight flashed off its windshield and into the shop’s front window. Betty blinked.

When she opened her eyes, the woman’s smile was brilliant. How on earth does someone have teeth that white and still eat food? Betty thought. On the counter was a neat pile of bills in exchange for the fans and slippers.

As she turned away, the woman said, “Well, if you change your mind, I’m at the Shanghai Junk for the rest of the month. They call me the Siamese Kitten. It’s some show, I tell you.” She pointed her finger at Betty’s nose and, instantly, Betty felt guilty, as if that sharply manicured nail were ferreting out some unexpressed desire buried deep in her body. “I won’t tell your husband. I promise.” And she walked out, laughing, her heels on the wooden floor echoing through the shop.

—

Five days passed. Betty cleaned the big house in Shaughnessy with energy that surprised her. She found herself on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bathroom floor, alarmed at the mildew and dust that gathered in the rough grout between tiles. In the bedrooms, she flipped mattresses on her own, flinging them up and feeling a rush of air as they fell back on their frames. Mrs. Lehmann said nothing, just shook her head as Betty scurried into the kitchen for more hot water, her breath coming hard and fast.

As she was eating lunch, she ran a finger up her leg and wondered how it would feel encased in a fishnet stocking. How bright would a woman’s skin be under harsh spotlights? Would the howls of men distract her or egg her on? Before the thoughts could form any further, Betty swallowed the rest of her sandwich and ran upstairs with a handful of newspaper to polish the mirrors.

That afternoon, she walked through Chinatown, intending only to buy a whole chicken and some fresh noodles. She didn’t even have time for a short visit at the shop. But on her way to Superior Poultry, she circled the block that housed the Shanghai Junk. From the corner, she could see its neon sign, could even hear it buzz if she closed her ears to the traffic and concentrated. “ ‘It’s some show,’ ” she whispered, as she pretended to look at the mustard greens spread out on an overturned wooden box. The street merchant, a sharp-eyed old man, stared at her moving lips.

If she turned her head to the right, she would see the theatre’s front door. But she was afraid to look, afraid that the place was spewing irresistible magic and that she would be drawn in, whether she struggled or not. Her hand in her jacket pocket grew hot, and she could feel the damp bits of lint lining the seams.

One look, she thought. It won’t hurt. She stared at the black-painted door. And took a step forward.

Betty stood at the entrance, her hands clamped to her sides. Better to not draw attention to herself, especially here in Chinatown, where her husband’s friends seemed to be planted everywhere—in dark doorways, leaning against brick walls that swallowed up their dark clothes. There was a small gap between the club and the building next door, and Betty slipped into it for a moment, her eyes travelling up and down the street slowly, looking for any trace of someone familiar. After several minutes, with her hands brushing the exterior wall, she backed into the Shanghai Junk.

The sensation: like floating. The cool air lifted the hairs on her arms.

A young girl (her hair was falling over her face, but Betty could see by the boniness in her shoulders that she was not a woman yet) sitting at the front desk muttered, “Fifty cents.”

Betty gave her the coins, and the girl waved her through, her eyes fixed on the magazine open in front of her.

The doors to the theatre itself were closed. Double doors, the kind that silently swing both in and out. They were painted a dark red, too purple to look like blood, but alarmingly fleshy nonetheless. The foyer was empty. No one remarked on the small, motionless Chinese woman.

The doors opened, and Betty jumped backward until she was half hidden by a gold-painted pillar. A bearded man with a dirty hat and thick shoes walked out, rubbing his wide hands together. Through the open doors, Betty caught sight of a roving spotlight, then a flutter of red and yellow feathers. Before she could think any further, she took three steps and was inside. The doors closed behind her with a murmur of air.

The theatre was half full, and most of the men occupied the first eight rows of seats. A few dotted the seats in the back, but Betty spied a patch that was completely empty under the jutting balcony. She crab-walked into the middle and sat down.

It was dark, but everything glowed red and dark and thick—velvet curtains, rich wood, plush carpet beneath her feet. But these were details she noted only perfunctorily.

She looked up and there it was: the lit stage, the dancing woman dressed as a resplendent parrot, the men watching as if this woman were the only thing they could ever want to see, as if this performance, with the waggle of her hips, contained all their happiness. The dancer flashed a glitter-covered nipple, and a roar went up from the audience, a roar that belied the number of men actually gathered there.

The men reacted to every move she made. She flicked a finger, and a ripple of energy spread through the crowd. She walked the width of the stage, and Betty could see their heads following her. She performed a high kick, and a collective wave of approval surged through the seats.

Betty thought she could smell the arousal in the air, a burnt-skin odour that rose up from the seats and circled the room slowly like a thick soup. If she stepped on that stage, would the reaction be the same? Could the curve of her hips bounce to the beat and draw gasps from strange men, or even from her own husband?

She looked around, and drew the sleeves of her jacket over her hands. If anyone noticed her, they made no indication.

The spotlight twirled and spun, and Betty wished she could warm her hands in the light, watch her flesh turn white and blue and red with each change of a filter. The music pounded, and she thought about going home that night and dancing with the children, or waltzing around the living room with her husband. Preposterous, of course, but she smiled at the thought anyway: the house filled with the noise of stamping feet and the tinny music from their small radio. Laughter bouncing off walls and ceilings, rattling the windows and escaping into the night air, spurring the neighbours to remark, “That Lim family. Always having fun.” Her own reflection in the glass, spinning and beautiful, so glowing and shiny that people on the street stopped and stared, unconsciously moving their heads in time to the music. It could be, couldn’t it?

Another dancer appeared onstage, a blond woman dressed like Shirley Temple twenty years earlier. Betty watched for a few minutes, saw her body revealed bit by bit. She saw the look of irritation on her face, as if these men were mosquitoes, crowding her and impossible to swat away. Betty felt a headache coming on (that music, and the lights that seemed to pound at her just as loudly) and she remembered her children. She was a mother, sitting in a dark room half full of men, with naked ladies dancing in front of her. She looked down at the peanut shell—covered floor, her cheeks burning. How irresponsible.

She had groceries to buy and dinner to cook, a silent husband who would make his displeasure known in some other way if she was late. He might ignore the dripping garden hose, or leave his near-empty beer bottles on the floor, where they would inevitably tip over and form a sticky puddle she would have to clean up.

The twenty minutes inside this place would have to be forgotten, locked away in her brain. It didn’t matter anyway; she would never be like these women, showing the intricacies of their bodies, or these men, displaying their desires for anyone to see. Her family didn’t dance, and that was that. If she wanted something different, no one could know or guess, least of all her children. It wouldn’t be a problem: half the time, little Danny stared right through her. He thought she wasn’t interesting enough to hold his attention, and, while this occasionally made Betty sad, right now she considered it useful. The quiet, muddy-skinned mother couldn’t possibly have music and dance and laughter ringing inside her body. Those things belonged to the beautiful people.

She buttoned up her jacket and stood, careful to keep her head down in case someone should notice her. As she was walking up the dark aisle, she heard a low and raspy male voice in the balcony shout, “Where’s the Siamese Kitten? I want the Siamese Kitten.” Betty stopped and scanned the crowd, but couldn’t see who had spoken. She felt her shoulders droop.

She didn’t know how she would shake off this fatigue. But today was like any other day, and there was food to be cooked and floors to be swept. Like always, she would hardly talk. She thought she might say something to her husband, just once, about Danny and how she knew he could still be the son they would be proud of, but then she thought that speaking up was something to be done sparingly. Best to save it all up for a time when she really needed to unleash what was on her mind. As Betty pushed open the door to the lobby, she took one last look behind her. The dancer onstage ripped off her skirt with a whirl of energy, but her face remained still, the lines clear but so, so tired.