Kartika_Issue15

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the next generation couldn’t bestow upon their children any more answers than those who came before them. Wasn’t it Li-Ming’s favorite poet Han Shan who told us, over a dozen centuries ago, to ‘Tell families with silverware and cars: what's the use of all that noise and money?’ But now, thanks to Deng Xiaoping, we had more noise. We had more money. And still the diving girls threw their arms over the heads, slapped at the air like tai chi practitioners. The performance was for our sake, rows of eager parents believing this was the right path for their children—the only path. The judges, two grim-looking middle-aged women with gray-streaked hair pulled into tight buns and one stout young man with rosy-hued cheeks, sat at a long table on the far side of the pool. They organized their scoring placards, seemingly unaware of the gymnastics happening beneath the diving board’s staircase, unapologetically preparing to disappoint most of the parents. Lao K. What was there to say about Lao K? She slid into the pool just beside Li-Ming’s feet and dunked her head under the water as casually as a seabird, her golden hair dampening into reddish brown. What happened next surprised even me: my wife, likely inspired by the sight of Lao K’s long tendrils floating happily on the blue surface, slipped loose the knot of her head scarf. The fabric, silk fluttering, floated to her lap. She shook her head and the motion—my wife shaking a head bereft of its once long, black strands—wasn’t so much as sad, not even pitiful. No, it was merely a relic of an older gesture, a gesture that once meant nothing (nothing but a misplaced flirtation?). As she did, I reached my fingers to comb the air, that invisible, once-was hair. Then I heard the snickers. The gasps. Hadn’t the crowd seen a bald head before? Yes, my wife was dying. Yes, she’d lost her hair in the latest belated, futile batch of chemotherapy treatments. As the snickering grew, Lao K propped herself atop the pool deck and glared into the crowd with so severe, so instinctively protective a look she silenced their gaping; still, Li-Ming didn’t notice the attention, nor Lao K’s response. My wife was too transfixed on our daughter, who now calmly climbed the stairs to the diving board’s highest rung. There she was—my oval-shaped head and strong jaw, now hers, hidden beneath a black rubber cap and Li-Ming’s thick calves flexing with each step. If only she’d known her true, underlying resemblance to Li- Ming. If only they could stand side-by-side to compare bodies—hairless twins. Only the shape of their heads would betray their symmetry. Chlorine smell now: Lao K sliding back into the water and paddling past Li- Ming to retrieve the camera with its clear plastic shield. She winked at my 38
ISSUE 15 | SPRING 2013 wife who smiled calmly back: what had they discussed in my absence? Women: would we ever know? “Tell me what you see under there,” Li-Ming said. Chenxi reached the end of the platform. She turned to face the back wall, calves flexing, heels descending and raising, twitching slightly with each slow, cautious pump. 7.5 meters. Lili. Inward somersaults. I thought of Li- Ming’s insistent desire for our daughter to be the best at everything. What did it mean? Was the best just better than what we’d been? Was the best what we didn’t have the heart, the stamina, the strength, the inheritance, to achieve? Weren’t we fooling ourselves in believing she was capable of this? Now my daughter was standing at the edge of a board the height of a twostory building and she was breathing the breath that would keep her body buoyant underwater and Lao K was inhaling deeply, plunging that honeyed hair beneath the surface of the pool. They inhaled together, speaking that language I never understood. My hands raised instinctively, about to clap, to plead with Chenxi to stop, but Li-Ming slapped them to my lap. Chenxi looked to her feet. We all held our breath as her toes lost their grip, but then, quickly, her body folded into itself in one-and-a-half spins and her arms extended above her head and—her legs passed upright—yes, her legs kept going until flap!— There was no straight entry. There were no arms perfectly extended (triceps firm, elbows locked). No stomach duly pinched against an exquisitely arched back. No legs lengthened to pointed feet, toes so curled they flicked the water like a feather. No, our daughter was not as perfect as Li-Ming imagined. She even betrayed Mr. Peng’s admiration; he walked sternly to the pool’s edge where Chenxi was about to surface. Leaning over, he whispered something to her rubbercapped head, something to which she nodded dutifully. The judges frowned, holding their placards above their heads in solidarity: 4.5/10 – 4.5/10 – 4.5/10 Our daughter was less than perfect. Much, much less so. 39
Page 2 and 3: Cover Art: “The Home Front" from
Page 4 and 5: MISSION STATEMENT Kartika Review se
Page 6 and 7: EDITORIAL Eugenia Leigh Dear Reader
Page 8 and 9: Purvi Shah’s “Tree Risings” d
Page 10 and 11: The Home Front Jordan Josafat 10
Page 12 and 13: lip as she tried to swing her swoll
Page 14 and 15: “Masayuki! Tsune, sit quietly. Be
Page 16 and 17: simple wedding was kept. Along with
Page 18 and 19: Etsuko had backed out the door slow
Page 20 and 21: SKIN DEEP Anu Kandikuppa To: Kinder
Page 22 and 23: northwestern part of India, in part
Page 24 and 25: must use a blend of oils and perfor
Page 26 and 27: To: Ms. Clayton and Ms. Simpson Fro
Page 28 and 29: To: General Manager, Crayona Compan
Page 30 and 31: “Yes,” I said, “though I’m
Page 32 and 33: THOUGHTS OF SINKING Kaitlin Solimin
Page 34 and 35: I paused. How had she remembered th
Page 36 and 37: never touched any of the girls inap
Page 40 and 41: Chenxi climbed up the silver ladder
Page 42 and 43: she’d tried. She’d climbed to t
Page 44 and 45: else. For now, this tall, slow Amer
Page 46 and 47: “That’s true,” I said. I hate
Page 48 and 49: I’d read a newspaper article many
Page 50 and 51: Bomb the Morons 50
Page 52 and 53: Into the Wild 52
Page 54 and 55: Runaway Train 54
Page 56 and 57: PAROUSIA I Karen An-Hwei Lee Red bu
Page 58 and 59: QUARANTINE Henry W. Leung My feet p
Page 60 and 61: THE TRANSFUSION OF YUKIYO KANAHASHI
Page 62 and 63: 5. Some people will accuse me of bi
Page 64 and 65: Platonic knowledge is joyful recoll
Page 66 and 67: our self, freed from the constraint
Page 68 and 69: the story of how I began studying J
Page 70 and 71: Jackson Bliss earned his MFA from t
Page 72 and 73: piece suit nearest the air conditio
Page 74 and 75: AUTHOR INTERVIEW WITH MONIQUE TRUON
Page 76 and 77: suspect everyone in Saigon was conc
Page 78 and 79: KR: What is the physical act of wri
Page 80 and 81: CONTRIBUTOR BIOS FICTION Sharon Has
Page 82 and 83: ART 82 What The Jordan Josafat Jord
Page 84 and 85: Nonfiction Editor, Jennifer Derilo
Page 86 and 87: Kartika Review is a national Asian
Page 89:
ISSUE 15 | SPRING 2013 89
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