Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet: On a Slow Boat from Shanghai to Texas

Chapter Six: Two Miles to the Bottom

Two Miles to the Bottom U nderneath me, waves thumped the keel. Every now and then, we hit a massive wave at a bad angle and the impact sounded like a cannon going off. Vibrations shuddered down the hull, and the whole ship shook as if coming apart. It worried me that I’d never felt such pounding on Navy tenders, but I realized it was because they displaced about twenty thousand tons. I’d never felt anything like it on little yachts or sailboats either, but of course, those small boats hadn’t been in the middle of the Paci fic, with a gale whipping in from the Aleutians. I said prayers for my family and friends in the event of my death, and then, even more earnestly, I said some for myself. I wasn’t sleeping but had reached a point of vague relaxation in my prayers and meditation, in which the sounds of the storm weren’t so frightening and my mind calmed down a little. Just when I might have fallen asleep, someone knocked on my door. I heaved myself from the bed and pulled on my jeans. Mr. Ding stood outside. “You sick?” he said. He looked a little sick himself— pale and cheerless. UWP: Kendall: Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet page 112 112 UWP: Kendall: Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet page 113 113 “Yes,” I said, trying to sound brave. He held out a piece of freshly cut ginger. “No sick.” “Really?” I took the ginger—its sharp, fresh smell was certainly bracing. I nibbled a corner of it. “This will make me feel better?” “No!” He took the ginger back from me and rubbed it inside his wrist, telling me something in Chinese. I copied his movements, rubbing the rough edge of the root on my skin. It didn’t have any effect on me, but at least Mr. Ding looked pleased. “Rest-ah,” he said. “Have a rest.” I didn’t know if he meant me or himself. It was midafternoon, the hour of the xiu xi, or universal nap. I thanked him and staggered back to bed, my arms fragrant with ginger. No one but the cook and me seemed much bothered by the worsening weather. After lying down for a while, I went downstairs ready to cancel class, but everyone was up and about their business, inquiring about my health. Feeling inferior, I crept back to my room and took my first anti-seasickness pill. I’d had a stateside doctor prescribe the medicine, but I’d been hoping to make the journey without using it. An hour or so after taking it, I felt well enough to teach, although I had to brace myself against the bar to stand up. At the end of class, my second-level students seemed unusually eager to leave the classroom. Their “thank-yous” were a little rushed, and on his way out, Zhao explained why. “Today dinner is chicken feet.” “Chicken feet. I’d been wondering when they were going to break those out.” Zhao didn’t follow what I said, so I just nodded him on his way, grateful that the cook had so far ignored my requests to be served the same food that the crew ate. No matter what Barry and I said, Mr. Ding continued preparing special food for the Westerners. For us two he fried pork chops, Two Miles to the Bottom stewed beef, sautéed chicken, and grilled steaks, while the Chinese crew got rice, steamed veggies, and occasional fish. Besides feeling laden down by all the meat, Barry and I were getting sick of eating together. Not terribly compatible in our interests or values to begin with, we were no longer enjoying our nightly tête-à-tête, sitting across from each other in American exile while, in the next room, the rest of the ship feasted on rice and beer. Not that Barry was a bad guy: apart from his politics (slightly right of Ronald Reagan), he was agreeable enough, and we had some nice supper conversations. One night, after a few Chinese beers, he’d unbent to tell me about his personal life. “I think about it all the time,” he said. “All day. I can’t stop thinking about my son, Randall. It’s stupid, I know. He’s eighteen, too old for me to tell him what to do, but...