Page 118 of If Looks Could Kill
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll take the long way around to Chinatown.”
“We’ll head down toward the Brooklyn Bridge,” Mike proposed, “and cross under it.”
We headed toward the colossal bridge. As a cold wind whipped up from the East River, I folded the flaps of my coat over my throat as best I could.
“The long way around to Chinatown,” Mike echoed. “That soundslike the title to a dance hall ditty.” He sang,“Take the long way round to Chinatown to get your gal chop suey. The bowl of rice is awf’ly nice, and the vegetables are chewy….”
“I’m speechless,” I told him.
“Liar,” said he.
“I’m speechless,” I insisted, “because I can’t decide which to say first. Three things. One: Did you just make that up?”
“I should hope so.” Mike laughed. “If that song exists, then shame on whoever wrote it.”
“?‘And the vegetables are chewy’?” I said. “That’s pure poetry.”
“Har har. Very funny.”
“Thing two,” I said, “where did you learn to sing like that?”
He looked perplexed. “At my mother’s knee, I suppose.”
“No, really,” I told him. “Your voice is”—I realized there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t sound like gushing flattery—“quite something.”
“Only one I’ve got.”
“Is your family musical?”
He considered. “Not more musical than other families.” He shrugged. “More people play instruments in Ireland, even if just a tambourine or whacking a pair of spoons together.”
“Do you play anything?” I asked. “I’ve always wished I played an instrument.”
“I expect I can blow a tune on the mouth of a jug,” he teased.
“If I’d been born in Ireland,” I said, “I’d have been politely asked to just listen, please.”
“If you were born in Ireland,” he said, “your name would be Taibít.”
“That’s very pretty,” I said.
He took a long look at my face—my scratched face—and smiled, as if to say,So are you.
A young Chinese man acted as our server and brought us each heaping bowls of chop suey. We dug in, me with a fork and Mike with wooden chopsticks. A warm, savory dish like this was just what I needed after a long walk in the cold and a long day of worry.
“I would’ve eaten here every day if Pearl would’ve let me,” I told Mike between bites.
“Nothing’s good every day,” he said. “Miss Pearl doesn’t like Chinese food?”
I caught myself before telling the truth: Pearl couldn’t afford it. She’d put up other protests. Too salty. Too many flavors at once. Not enough rice. Too much sauce. “Too many pennies” was what it was. That time I insisted on treating us both, she ate every last bean sprout.
I had missed so much with Pearl. Failed to see what she needed. I was too busy being annoyed and vexed by what she said to realize what she meant.
“You mentioned three things earlier,” Mike said between bites, “and I only heard two. Thing one: my poetic lyrics.” He made a playful bow. “Thing two: my singing.” He bowed again. “Now, what was thing three?”
I busied myself with my fork. “Oh. That was nothing.”
He wasn’t having this. “Out with it.”
