Cong You Bing

Milly, the frizzy-haired seamstress, shuffled noiselessly into the rear of Jacobi Dry Cleaning with a pair of men’s corduroy pants draped over her left arm. “Customer needs a couple additional inches on the waistband. Tag’s attached.” She deposited the pants on the table but seemed in no great haste to return to work. 

Sheldon, who was ironing the collar on a rather expensive, titanium blue Berluti shirt, looked up. “Was there something else?” 

“Min just arrived,” Milly spoke in hushed tones. “She’s sporting a black eye and bruised lip.” “When I asked her what happened she burst into tears and rushed off to her work station.” 

Sheldon stared at the corduroy pants resting on the work bench; measuring in the high forties, they were already enormous. Whoever dropped them off was clearly losing the battle of the bulge. “Send Min here and close the door behind you.”

A moment later Min Wong was standing in front of him with her cut lip and swollen, discolored eye. A rather nondescript woman with a pudgy torso and compact breasts, adolescence and the normal rites of puberty seemed to have passed her by without so much as a backward glance. “How many times has this happened in the past year?” When there was no immediate reply he muttered, “Where’s your shithead husband?”

“At work. He’s sorting flowers for a wedding tonight.” Harry Wong owned the largest floral boutique in the tri-town region, having cornered the market on most functions at the local country club as well as Brandenburg Funeral Parlor. 

Sheldon grabbed his car keys. “Get your coat, We’re going for a little ride.” 

“Where to?”

“Back to your house. You can pack some clothes, underwear, pajamas… enough to get you situated for a few days, while we decide what’s next.”

“I’ve no place to stay,” she replied meekly. “None of my relatives will take me in. They’re too afraid of my husband.”

“Then you can stay with me in the spare bedroom. For the rest of the day you needn’t do much of anything here. Just work out your shift, and I’ll take you home with me.”

“My husband… he’ll make trouble.”

Reaching out he ran the spatulated tip of an index finger over the swollen flesh beneath Min’s left eye and the woman flinched. “Nobody should have to live like this.”

• * * * * *

Later that afternoon, while Min rested on the living room couch with a cold compress pressed to her eye, Sheldon cobbled together a spaghetti dinner. He sautéd sliced onions, red peppers, garlic and mushrooms along with ground hamburger and a store-bought sauce. In lieu of spaghetti he opted for angel hair pasta. “This is absolutely wonderful!” Min said midway through the meal.

Walter placed a slice of garlic toast alongside her plate. “You never cook spaghetti?”

 She raised a mouthful of aromatic pasta to her lips. “I tried once, but my husband said there would be hell to pay if I ever served that Italian crap again.” She chuckled mirthlessly and lowered her eyes. “Min… the Chinese name means clever… quick, sharp, but I wasn’t terribly clever, quick or sharp choosing a brute like him.” After a moment she added, “I can’t stay married to such a brute. While still young, I must get rid of him.”

“You need a divorce and a restraining order, not necessarily in that order,” Sheldon noted. “I know a lawyer who can handle both.” Sliding a container of shredded Parmesan cheese across the table, he added, “I’ll contact the attorney tomorrow morning.” “Come sit over here,” he urged, once the meal was finished, gesturing at a faux-leather Barcalounger alongside the fireplace. “Yes, come rest on this comfy chair,” he insisted, adjusting the footrest so that it was fully extended. When she was finally settled on the Barcalounger, Min’s diminutive body seemed far too small for the massive beast of a recliner. Propping her head with a throw pillow, he said, “Rest here a moment. There’s something I want to show you.” 

 Sheldon hurried off and a minute later returned with a tattered paperback. “The collected Works of A. E. Coppard,” Min read the title on the front cover. 

“There’s one particular  story, The Pressser, that reminded me of your dilemma so much so that -”

“Wait a bit.” Min suddenly rolled off the side of the plump chair and headed toward the spare bedroom where she had laid out a pair of flannel pajamas and bedroom slippers. “I’m getting awfully sleepy,” she explained, “and thought it would be better if I took a warm shower and got ready for bed.” The woman disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Twenty minutes later, she was settled on the Barcalounger, wrapped in a warm blanket. “You can continue now.”

Sheldon, who was sitting on a  settee, opened the Coppard book and thumbed through a handful of pages, but before he could collect his thoughts Min blurted, “An oriental plain Jane.” “Plain Jane! Plain Jane!” She repeated and began crying fitfully. “He used to taunt me… said I was a homely, undesirable bitch, and no self-respecting spouse could love such a homely woman with a fat nose, flabby lips and face as flat as cong you bing.” The last handful of words she uttered with an Asian inflection.

Sheldon went into the bathroom to retrieve a box of Kleenex, which he rested on the arm of the chair. “Those Chinese words…”

“Cong you bing,” Min explained. “It’s a pan-fried delicacy seasoned with green onions, sesame seeds, miso and savory dipping sauce.”

“Your husband’s an asshole!" he muttered.

“True enough!” She yawned as her walnut-colored eyes drooped nearly shut. “I’m very sleepy.”

“I’d still like to tell you the story.” Sheldon insisted, reaching for the A. E. Coppard book. “I won’t keep you long, and you might find it interesting, as several  scenes in the story mirror what’s been going on in your marriage.” Rising from the chair he began to wander about the perimeter of the room, pausing briefly in front of the picture window. The street was dark, hardly any traffic moving in the mall parking lot across the highway. “Mr. Sulky, the main character in the Coppard story, owns a small clothing business similar to Jacobi Dry Cleaners. One day a seamstress, Helen, shows up to work just as you did this morning with a black eye and broken spirit.” Sheldon paused just long enough to let the imagery sink. Glancing over his shoulder, Ming Wong was curled in a semi-fetal position, lips slightly parted, slumbering peacefully. 

Stepping away from the window, he continued his perambulations. “You see, Mr. Sulky loves the seamstress with a devotion bordering on the sacred!” His voice rose several decibels. “A steadfast fondness that -”

“What was that?” Min flinched and her eyes flitted open. “You were speaking but I fell asleep.” After a pause Min added, “You were reading from your book… something about a dry cleaner’s shop, as I remember.” Min had slept through most everything he had told her, the Coppard story blown to bits and pieces before he hardly began. He went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of cranberry juice. When he returned, it no longer mattered that he had lost his place in the narrative or that she heard nothing whatsoever of his mindless prattle. Once again, Min Wong was dead to the world, sound asleep.

• * * * * *

During the five years Min worked at Jacobi Dry Cleaners, she trimmed and hemmed trouser cuffs and waistbands with meticulous care. Cross stitch, herringbone, blind hem, whip stitch - she sewed them all by hand with effortless ease. Where several pieces of ornate cloth needed to be fastened without any noticeable seams, she fell back on the invisible ladder stitch. Because Min was particularly  good with delicate lace and embroidered fabrics, a bridal shop in the area sent their customers’ wedding gowns directly to Jacobi Dry cleaners with the request that alterations be handled specifically by the reticent oriental woman who seldom smiled. 

From the outset, Sheldon hardly knew what to make of her. Min certainly wasn’t terribly pretty; she was utterly lacking in feminine graces. Yet over the years he grew comfortable with her dogmatically unobtrusive ways. Poker-faced Min Wong came to work each day. She arrived an unfathomable mystery and left an exotic bitter-sweet mix of fragrant scents resembling the calmingly sandalwood, medicinal camphor, the sweet balsamic benzoin or rich, woody agarwood, on everything she touched. Away from the workplace, a wispy, ephemeral image of Min Wong - stolid, phlegmatic, impassive - suffused his innermost thoughts. Adroitly and without a single sideward glance, the nimble-fingered seamstress adroitly picked the lock to his heart.

• * * * * *

In the morning Sheldon threw together a cheese omelet and a pot of fresh-perked coffee. When the meal was finished, He left the room momentarily and returned clutching the Coppard anthology. “Now that I have your undivided attention, let me finish the story.”

Ten minutes later, when Sheldon finally put the book aside, Min observed, ““Such beautiful sentiments with a fairy tale ending!” “I’m assuming the couple eventually married.”

“Coppard is rather vague about that,” he replied. “But the incident with the gift -”

“The fancy teapot,” Min shot back.

“Yes, the teapot hints at future wedding presents.” “But here’s the strangest thing of all,” he continued in a doggedly insistent tone. “Most of Coppard’s short stories are mercilessly grim. They read like Greek tragedies.” Sheldon thumbed through the opening pages backwards to the table of contents. “The Presser… the story I just spoke to you about. Where is it in the book?”

Min ran a poised finger down the lengthy list of stories. “Tenth from the top of the page.”

“Virtually every tale that precedes it wreaks of gloom and doom. There’s not a single happy ending."

“Not one?”

“No, none whatsoever,” Sheldon shot back. “Five hundred pages of endless grief and human misery except for The Presser.” Reaching across the table, Sheldon patted Min’s wrist. “I’m not religious… more agnostic, sceptic or nihilist than full-blown atheist, but the Coppard story suggests  a message from a higher power.”

• * * * * *

Sheldon Jacobi eased into the Wong Floral Boutique shortly before sunset, meandering about the rear of the room, while the proprietor, Mr. Wong, catered to a customer discussing wedding arrangements. Near the window was a colorful arrangement featuring purple African violets, yellow begonias, hot pink kalanchoe and a charming little polka dot plant that Sheldon couldn’t recognize. The air was warm as a hot house and thickly perfumed with a potpourri of exotic scents.

“We’ve done dozens of events at the Brandenburg Country Club and work very well with their event planner,” the owner assured the woman. Harry Wong was taller than most Asians with a thickset, muscular build, the dark hair pulled back in a braided pigtail. “The centerpiece you chose with the white hydrangeas, blush roses, and lush greenery are perfect for couples seeking an elegant and refined aesthetic.” He shook his head from side to side emphatically. “And you wouldn’t really need any of the terracotta roses or peach and white stock that we were previously discussing.”

“Hard to believe,” Sheldon mused as he wandered about the aisles, “that the same Harry Wong who battered and bruised his wife just a handful of nights earlier, was so slavishly accommodating with the persnickety customer. 

The previous April, Sheldon planted a row of Kentucky Wonder pole beans in his backyard garden. By early June vines had shot up five feet in the air and a profusion of eggshel-white blossoms littered every plant. But then for  six straight days temperatures soared into the high nineties. The earth parched and cracked, while the Kentucky Wonder pole bean blossoms withered away and turned to dust. But Mother Nature coveted an inscrutable, divine wisdom, and by early August, once the drought had passed, the pastel blossoms miraculously reemerged, and Sheldon enjoyed the best harvest of succulent beans imaginable.

Harry Wong was a harsh, relentless drought. He showed no mercy, no regret for damage done or hope of future redemption. He was an insidious anomaly. The florist might be able to nurture exotic rare plants like the ethereal ghost orchid or corpse flower,  but his wife would never in a hundred lifetimes enjoy such kindness, admiration or generosity. 

When the woman finally left the store, the owner turned to Sheldon and spoke in a gruff peremptory tone. “We’re closing in five minutes.”

“I didn’t come to purchase anything.” In no great hurry to leave he moved nearer the refrigerated case and sniffed at a delicate cluster of purple orchids rimmed with ivory and dusky gold centerpieces. “Cong you bing,” Sheldon spoke in an unhurried, thoughtful manner. “I don't suppose you know what that might be.”

Mr. Wong’s eyes narrowed. “It's a popular oriental pan-fried treat seasoned with green onions,” Harry Wong replied. 

“Scallions, sesame seeds, miso and a savory dipping sauce.” Sheldon pulled his chin away from the orchid and returned to the front of the store. “Earlier in the week you gave your wife, Min, a black eye and bruised lip; then you ridiculed the poor woman… called her a plain Jane.” “You said she was homely and undesirable, called her an ugly bitch with a fat nose, flabby lips and face flat as a cong you bing.” 

‘Where’s my wife?” Harry Wong seethed and made a motion to come out from behind the counter, which is when Sheldon struck the man, a crisp, chopping blow on the jaw which sent his torso careening backwards, the head teetering up and down like that of a bobblehead doll’s suspended on a wire coil. Then the Chinaman slumped straight downward in a flabby heap. 

Moving about the room, Sheldon methodically shut all the lights but one, threw the deadbolt and turned the rectangular cardboard sign in the front door to read “CLOSED’. Several cars entered the parking lot but quickly drove away when they saw the darkened building. Sheldon waited a good fifteen minutes until he heard Harry Wong begin to stir followed by a mixture of moans, groans and vulgar epithets, some in English others in a singsong language he had no knowledge of. “”Well, at least he’s not dead,” Sheldon mused and left the building.