A CHINESE BUSINESS LUNCH
My father stood in the middle of the room, his eyes bright behind his glasses. "There's this Chinese restaurant Mom and I go to. Great food. The best soup." He bunched the tips of his fingers, brought them to his mouth, and kissed them.
He extolled the egg roll, the lemon chicken, the shrimp with cashew nuts.
I feigned enthusiasm. "I know the place. The food is good."
"Would you like to go tomorrow? They have this business lunch menu --"
"Great. Tomorrow."
In the evening, I found them sitting in front of the blaring TV, watching a rerun of Dallas.
"In this heat you don't eat soup, right?" my mother asked. The TV flicker in her hand encompassed the late summer weather outside.
"Soup?"
"You know, at the Chinese restaurant tomorrow."
I shook my head. "No."
"In that case," she continued, "you wouldn't want to wait while we eat our soup, right?"
"No problem," I replied.
"Perhaps we should take out so you won't have to wait."
"I don't mind, really."
"But then," my mother said, "if you order a business lunch and you don't eat the soup, it will go to waste."
"Maybe I won't order the business lunch, then," I said.
"Business lunch is the best deal," my father interjected. "It has everything. But if you don't eat the soup... well, I don't know...."
"Let's bring in, then," my mother said. "We'll eat the soup before you come home --"
"It's more fun to go out and not fuss in the kitchen," I said.
"You're sure you don't mind?"
"Let's just go and enjoy ourselves," I said. "It would be fine either way."
Bewilderment on her face, my mother turned her head back to the TV screen.
In the morning, next to my coffee, I found a brochure. The Chinese restaurant's menu.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"So you can decide what you'd like to order," my mother replied.
My stomach churned at the list of dishes. "It's too early," I said. "I stick to the usual stuff."
"You won't order the business lunch?"
I flashed her a smile. "Mom, we'll see. It's all part of the fun. We sit down, we select from the menu, I play with the chopsticks while you eat your soup. I pour us tea, we eat, we talk. Then we have fortune cookies."
At noon, dressed up for the event, they waited at the door. I drove the five-minute distance to the restaurant.
"Drop us here," my mother suggested, "and we'll order the soup while you park."
"I'll drop you off here, but don't order until I arrive," I said.
A few minutes later, I settled across the table from them. I poured the tea.
Slowly, deliberately, their eyes on their spoons, they ate their soup.
I watched them focus on their soup, the highlight of their day.
Pictures of my younger mother chased through my inner eye. At age 32, dancing around the room in her new red skirt, swirling it until it swelled out like a parachute; age 38, the class mother on a school trip up a treacherous rocky mountainside; age 44, the former gym teacher performing a headstand on a high-beam.
Suddenly, I blurted, "I'll have soup, too."
It would chase away the tears that gathered at the back of my throat.
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