This Old Man Read Free

explained patiently. “They feed him spaghetti and meat loaf. He doesn’t eat that stuff. He’s got to have his Chinese dinner. It’s the least we can do.”
    The delicious scent drifted up to me and trailed off. I patted the napkins, to plump it up again. The steamy aroma worked its way into my head, unclogging long-ago memories of dinners at Imperial Gardens, one of Hackey’s favorite cheap Chinese restaurants. (I always ate with chopsticks, of course, which is something Hackey could never master, and my mother never tried.) For years I’d wanted to order the shrimp in lobster sauce, but it was $6.95, and Hackey always said no. Then a few weeks before I moved to Anza House, he had this burst of generosity, called up, I suspect, because he thought I’d be going to work for him soon. Anyway, he ordered shrimp in lobster sauce for me. It was fine, but two or three bites into it and I wished I’d ordered my old stand-by sweet and sour, which used to leave a pungent taste in my mouth till we got home. I can’t say it was a good taste, but it was one that stuck with me, which was better than nothing.
    So I asked Wing, “Is that sweet and sour?”
    â€œNo, no,” he laughed. His laugh was like wind chimes, not what you’d expect from a guy so solidly built. I had a feeling that even after his voice changed, he’d still have a delicate laugh. “Old Man eats only simple foods. My mother makes him broth, a little steamed rice, some tender chicken cooked the Chinese way.”
    It was a disappointing menu. I said, “Why do you call your grandfather Old Man?”
    Wing shrugged. “Why do they call me Wing?”
    â€œBecause that’s your name?”
    â€œPart of my name. I have a very long name. No one remembers my grandfather’s whole name, and he is older than anyone else in my family. It makes sense to call him Old Man.” Wing tucked the napkins tighter around the edges of the basket, as if he were wrapping a baby in a buggy.
    â€œNot that you asked, but my name is Greta.”
    He nodded yes, as if he’d already guessed, which of course was impossible, since we’d never seen each other before in our lives, and Greta wasn’t exactly your most common name among the Caucasian masses. I liked him. He was shy, but somehow also very sure of himself. I was the opposite—not shy, et cetera.
    â€œListen, Wing, I ride the cable car about this time every day,” I lied. But it wasn’t really a lie. I could certainly arrange to ride the cable car every day; there wasn’t anything better to do, except fight with Sylvia and pilfer M & M’s from her care package.
    â€œUm-hmm. Me too.”
    â€œWell, so, I was thinking.” He waited. Ah hah! I had him on the hook. I decided to let him dangle a second, and for a refreshing change, I thought about what to say next. The thing is, the food smelled so good, and the linen napkin was so starchy white, and the whole operation, from stove to hospital bed, was so carefully arranged, that I wanted to see what happened at the end of this loving assembly line. I wanted to see Wing unpack the basket and spread everything out on the bed table. I wanted to see Old Man’s eyes light up as each dish was unwrapped. “So I was thinking that I might come with you to Chinese Hospital and help with your grandfather’s dinner.”
    Wing looked shocked that I’d suggest something so improper. You’d think I’d propositioned him. “Old Man demands his privacy,” Wing said firmly. “This is my stop.” He hoisted the basket up onto his shoulder and was gone.
    Well, you can bet that I was there—same time, same station—the next day, and we continued our conversation as if there’d been no break.
    â€œWhy does he demand his privacy?”
    â€œWhy!” Wing chuckled. “Because.”
    I chewed the inside of my mouth.
    â€œOld Man