By Jay Scott Kanes
"NO way! Not a chance! No siree!” Exasperated, 41-year-old Blake Maynard, a Canadian, yelled across the living room at Lily, his Chinese wife.
The hopeful expression on Lily's face crumbled as usual once she raised the subject of children, leading Blake to blow his stack.
“Why keep nagging?” he sputtered. “We've discussed this often enough? I always say the same thing. What can change?”
“Your mind,” Lily whispered. “I hope you'll change your mind.”
“I don't want children and refuse to spend my best years raising them. Understand?”
Lily blinked. Tears dripped from her eyes.
“Good grief!” Shooting another annoyed look at the woman he'd married 13 years earlier, Blake grappled with the security chain and locks that protected their tiny apartment in Hong Kong. He grabbed a book before stepping into the hall and slamming the door.
Still furious, he descended four flights of stairs before realizing he needed a destination. Pausing in the doorway, he looked outside. Hawkers crouched on the pavement to sell jade carvings displayed on day-old newspapers. People, cockroaches and rats all multiplied too fast, he thought.
Blake needed tranquility, a rare commodity in this mad city. Over the years, he'd discovered a few reasonably serene spots. Maybe he could sit on a bench in a paved square that passed as a local park.
Surrounded by the babble of sidewalk Cantonese, Blake strode through dense pedestrian traffic. The sun beat down, and he perspired. Reaching his destination, he slumped onto an empty bench, tugged out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
Old men occupied most of the nearby benches. A few played Chinese cards. Some studied newspapers. Most stared blankly into space as if lost among memories. They ignored noise and fumes from the street.
Blake opened the book, a ghost story. He wanted to read, yet struggled to concentrate.
Already, he regretted yelling at Lily. He considered her a remarkable woman and a loving wife. No wonder she chattered about children. At age 37, her biological clock ticked loudly. But Blake held no wish to share his life with an infant. He relished sleeping late on weekends, holidaying overseas and living free of the ultimate family responsibility. Was he selfish? Blake supposed so, but Lily refused to concede how much a child would change their lives.
Any child they conceived would be half-Chinese and half gwei (foreign). He or she might speak two languages and enjoy two cultures, but would face racism from stupid people. Worse, Blake feared that mixed blood might translate into a mental or physical deformity. He knew that made no sense, yet the thought persisted.
His remorse deepened. When Lily cried, he should have held her and kissed away the tears. He could have told her not to worry, that they always had each other and that he'd love her until the end of time.
Sighing, he tried to focus on the book. This time the pages swept him into the narrative. Minutes passed as his eyes moved from line to line.
At a frightening moment in the plot, a small hand tugged at Blake's polyester pantleg. He flinched in surprise, his leg kicking as if someone had tapped a mallet on his knee.
A Chinese toddler stood before him, luckily not where Blake had swung his leg. The dark-haired girl peered up, smiled, pulled again at his pantleg and smiled more. Wearing a kiddy T-shirt and cloth diaper, she looked very young, capable of an unsteady walk and many sounds, but no real speech.
Blake noticed an irregular twist to the girl's features, notably near her eyes. She's mentally handicapped, he realized, smiling back because he liked other people's children, at least in moderation. He extended a hand, prompting her to grip his fingers. They exchanged an adult-toddler handshake.
“Happy to meet you,” Blake said.
Giggling in reply made the child totter, and she staggered to the next bench where a tiny, ancient man, dressed in a singlet and what looked like pajama bottoms, leaned to prevent her from falling. Touching the girl's shoulders, he steadied her and spoke tenderly in Cantonese.
The old helping the young, Blake thought. As the senior talked, smiling broadly, exposing toothless gums, Blake reckoned this might be a case of youth assisting age too. Despite not understanding the old man's words, Blake sensed an inexplicable bond between these two, one wealthy in experience and the other rich in potential.
Beaming, the child made grunting noises unintelligible in any language. She touched one of the man's wrists. The more she smiled, the more he did too until Blake feared the oldster's face might crack. Remarkably, the senior's wrinkles faded, and he looked younger.
Shifting his gaze, Blake scanned the park for the girl's guardian. There! Three benches away sat a middle-aged man following the girl's every move. On the pavement at his side rested a zip-top nylon bag like parents use to carry bottles, diapers and small toys.
The man's face made interesting reading. Blake sensed weariness, the sort caused by sleeplessness and vigilance, plus a remarkable brightness in the eyes. Tired or not, this father looked incredibly alive and intense. Automatically, Blake knew that he loved his daughter more than life itself.
Unsteadily, the toddler stepped away from the old man and returned her attention to Blake. After treating him to a high-beam smile, she grasped the bench and pulled herself up, squirming to sit beside him.
Looking down, Blake sensed warmth that radiated from her tiny body melting a frozen place inside him. After trading smiles for nearly an eternity, he glanced to the father, who stood and approached.
“Sorry, sir,” the man said. “My daughter enjoys meeting people.”
“No need to apologize. I appreciate seeing her.”
The father joined them on the bench, lifting the girl to his lap. “Time for us to go home, sweetie,” he said. She responded with more grunts.
Blake's flesh tingled as if he'd been wired into invisible love currents between the father and daughter. Silently, the father peered at Blake, who received a message as if by telepathy.
“Few parents would choose my daughter over a healthy child, yet she's precious, the light of my life.” Those words echoed in Blake's head.
The father stood, hoisting the child to his shoulders. “Goodbye, sir,” he said, nodding solemnly.
“Wave bye to uncle,” he instructed his daughter.
The girl waved at Blake, who returned the gesture.
“Blow a kiss,” the man said.
The child lifted a hand to her mouth, kissed it and gestured as if scattering flower petals to the breeze.
Then the man marched off, carrying the toddler, who gazed back, smiling and waving.
Blake watched them leave. Suddenly he wanted children of his own. Hit by an urge to better understand these fleeting friends, Blake leaped up, bounded across the square and scanned the crowded sidewalk. They'd vanished.
Scratching at his scalp, Blake glanced back to the park bench. Wow! He'd learned that children could sprinkle magic.
Blake rushed home, knowing that this time Lily would welcome his views. Nine months later, the Maynards had a healthy son. Blake insisted on naming the boy Parker.
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