“Did you get it?” she asks
“I did,” I say. “And I was very impressed.”
“When I was younger, I had a teacher who made us practice writing thank-you notes for everything. Like ‘Dear God, Much thanks for the sunrise this morning. It was very beautiful and I look forward to seeing it again tomorrow. Your Friend, Ashley Silver.’”
“Amazing.”
“She said if we had nothing else at least we’d have manners.”
“She may have been right. What else is going on up there?”
“Science,” she says. “We’re doing a lot of cooking. There’s a new teacher who is trying to use household chemistry as the basis for a cookbook, and the chemistry lab is functioning as a kind of test kitchen.”
“Sounds flavorful,” I say.
“Not really. I think it may actually be dangerous.”
In preparation for my return to the New York law firm to begin working with the stories, I replay my Nixon tapes — videotaped interviews he did with Frank Gannon in which he talks about Pat, about his family. I think of it as “the official version.” In all families we have the official version, the tacitly agreed-upon narrative that we tell about who we are and where we come from. I listen carefully, wanting to get Nixon’s cadence, his phrasing into my head, so that tomorrow, when I’m looking at the stories, I can hear his voice.
The next morning, Wanda introduces me to Ching Lan, who will do the transcribing.
Tall and thin, like a hand-pulled noodle, she shakes my hand vigorously. “Pleased to be working with you,” she says. “Just so you know, I read okay, I speak not so good.”
“Where are you from?”
“Downstairs,” she says. “I am the daughter of the deli owner.”
“I know your mother from a long time ago,” I say, laughing.
The woman nods. “She told me you are Mr. Cookie. I am so lucky,” she says. “They discover me; I type really fast; I can read Chinese, so any bad handwriting looks good to me; I can read like the wind — so I read and I type for them. I have no idea what I type, but they don’t care. It’s good I see my parents at lunch. We go to work together. And if I no know something, I ask,” she says happily.
“Where were you born?”
“Lenox Hill,” she says. “I am twenty-one years old. I play professional volleyball part-time.”
“You are a lucky woman,” I say. “Transcendent.”
Before we jump in, I explain a bit about my interest in Nixon to Ching Lan. “No worry. I study,” she says. “Wanda told me what you are doing and I go on Wikipedia and learn so much.”
I nod. “I am most interested in his personality and the ways in which his actions and reactions were of a particular era and culture — the era that built and defined the American Dream. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the subject; the phrase ‘American Dream’ was coined in 1931 by James Truslow Adams, who wrote, ‘Life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement regardless of social class or circumstances of birth.’ In 1931, Richard Nixon was eighteen years old, just coming into himself and when he resigned he was sixty years old, signaling the end of an era and perhaps the unacknowledged death of the dream, though some people feel it has just gone underground.”
Something about Ching Lan inspires me to talk, to digress, to keep elucidating. It feels liberating, inspiring. And she seems to follow what I’m saying.
We work side by side. I explain how I want the documents transcribed and let her know that if she comes across anything that doesn’t make sense she should bring it to my attention.
Every hour, Ching Lan takes a brief exercise break; as she stands, she encourages me to do the same. “Do what I do,” she says, and I echo her movements, flowing like an ancient dance brought forward.
“What is it called?” I ask.
“Qigong,” she says. “I do it every day — it brings blood to mind, awakens the true nature.”
I follow along until she breaks away — leaning backwards so far that her hands are on the ground behind her. She then lifts one leg, and then the other into the air. Ching Lan is standing on her head — holding the position. “So good,” she says. “So right.” And then she is upright and back in her chair, and we carry on.
Sunday at 8:30 a.m. I pick up the boy. His aunt has packed a large grocery bag full of food, Tupperware containers, metal forks, knives, spoons, napkins, and a change of clothes.
“He spills all the time,” she says.
Ricardo shrugs.
“How many meals did you pack?”
“Not so much,” she says. “He’s got a good appetite.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “I’ll plan to have him back by six — I know it’s a school night. And here’s my cell number if you need to reach us, and if you want me to we’ll check in during the day.”
“My husband is taking me on a day trip,” she says. “You go have fun.”
On the way to the car, I ask Ricardo if he’s had breakfast. “Yes,” he says, “but I could have more.”
“How about we wait a couple of hours; meantime, we can go to the park and play a little ball.”
At the park, Ricardo spots a group of boys kicking a soccer ball. I can tell he wants to join in, so I encourage him to go.
“I don’t know them,” he says sadly.
I walk with him, inject myself into the group of fathers on the side, and ask if Ricardo can join in — one of the men blows a whistle and yells, “New man comin’ in.” I give Ricardo a shove and he’s in the game. The fathers stand around talking about their hot-water heaters, their zoned heat, and other manly things like gutter cleaning. I nod along as part of the chorus. I also watch Ricardo. He’s not very coordinated — tripping over the ball, falling on his ass after he kicks it — but the other boys seem to tolerate having him in the game.
When the game dissolves, Ricardo and I sit on the benches; I suggest that perhaps he and I could do some practicing with a ball — I think there’s one in the basement.
Ricardo breathes deeply, red-faced, trying to catch his breath while digging through his grocery bag.
“Do you want to have a picnic?”
“Maybe you could eat this and I could get McDonald’s,” he suggests. “My aunt is a really good cook, but I eat it every day.”
He hands me something that looks like an empanada — it’s filled with beef, onions, spices that are hard to name. Despite the fact that it’s at room temperature, it’s delicious.
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll trade, but for what?”
“Double cheeseburger, large fries, and a shake?” Ricardo suggests.
“Cheeseburger, small fries, and no shake.”
“Fine,” he says, grudgingly.
We go to McDonald’s and then to a movie — it’s some kind of 3D kid thing — and after I get used to the glasses and my nausea passes, it’s kind of great. Ricardo laughs so many times in his funny, strange way that he wins me over — pounding me on the arm when he likes something.
“I have to run a quick errand — do you like hardware stores?”
“I guess,” the kid says.
The upstairs toilet needs a new handle. I find the part and then notice the kid poking around. From a couple of rows away I watch as he digs through bins of this and that, and then I see him digging through his pockets. At first I worry he’s shoplifting, but then realize he’s counting out change.
“How much have you got?” I ask, coming closer.
“Two dollars and sixty-seven cents.”
“How much do you need?”
“Two dollars ninety-nine cents.”
“Plus tax,” I say. “What is it you want?”
Ricardo points to a green frog-shaped flashlight that makes a sound like ribbit-ribbit. I give him a dollar.