A Southern Girl: A Novel

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A Southern Girl 262 j 26 i Leslie McKeller’s story is brief, accurate and buried on page six, befitting disavowals that puncture inflated stories trying to achieve altitude. With alarm, I find myself packing the paper in my briefcase, as if to remove it from Allie’s view. I study her at breakfast for signs that she is disappointed in me, as disappointed as I am with my token resistance to Harris’s blandishments. Perhaps he was right; no amount of time or thought would have produced a different result. Allie seems distant, occupied, so it is with some relief that I accept her invitation to accompany her to the Red Dragon for a summer job interview. By the time we reach the restaurant, she is her old self again. Mr. Quan insists on feeding us, as he always does, then suggests we adjourn upstairs where we can talk privately. We climb the stairs behind the kitchen, its clangor of woks and dishes incessant. He unlocks the door and steps aside, ushering us in with a wave of his arm. We enter a living room singularly free of whatever mysticism I may have anticipated. A vinyl-covered couch is against the far wall. At each end of the couch are end tables of motel quality and on these rest large ceramic lamps with fading shades. There is a coffee table, some old issues of Newsweek mixed among magazines in Vietnamese. Against the left wall, facing the street, is an entertainment center with wooden nooks for a wide-screen TV, a large and obviously expensive sound system, racks of videos and CD’s and tapes, many of them classical . Two chairs of the recliner variety, cumbersome and covered with imitation leather, angle simultaneously toward the couch and TV. The rug is a short-pile shag in a 70’s earth tone. On the wall to our right are two bookcases separated by a doorway leading to the rest of the unit. Mr. Quan motions Allie to a recliner and I take the other as he seats himself on the couch. “Your father,” he says, looking at her, “tells me you have interest in working with my enterprise for the summer.” Flow 263 “Yes, sir,” acknowledges Allie formally. “I plan to live at home to save everything I can for college. If you can use me I would be thrilled to get the job.” He turns briefly and throws me a look of playful skepticism. “And are you quite sure you would be here to work or is it possible you have your eyes on the young men I employ.” Allie laughs with him. “I’m a hard worker. You can ask my dad.” She glances at me for support. “The boys hold no attraction for you?” he asks. “They will be veddy disappointed.” Mr. Quan’s English is almost flawless, but the word “very” he insists on mispronouncing the way Churchill insisted on torturing, to the satisfaction of millions, the word “Nazi.” Perhaps he does it as a subconscious reminder that English is his second tongue, but for whatever reason “very” one of only a few words and phrases marring his virtual mastery of our language. “I have a boyfriend,” she says with the trace of modesty. “Ah! The young man you were with on the night of your father’s party. A handsome boy.” “Thank you. Christopher’s very nice.” “And veddy lucky to have attracted such a young woman as yourself. Now, when are you able to begin work?” Allie looks at me pointedly. “It depends on whether Dad gives me the graduation present I want. I finish school on the seventh of June. I could start right away unless . . .” “Unless your father takes you to Korea,” Mr. Quan says. “He mentioned the possibility of such a trip.” He turns to me. “Any decision yet? It will be most difficult to deny a request from such an outstanding daughter.” “Tell me about it,” I say, stifling a grin. “No, no decision yet. I’ve had so many distractions lately I’ve had very little time to think about June.” Mr. Quan lifts his eyebrows. “The newspaper? Yes, I have read of your troubles with our city and with this society.” He takes a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lights up, holding it palm-inward in the European style so that I picture him in a French cafe. “It is a reminder to me that as...