THE PUSSYCATS

It sounded like a purely capitalistic concept when her six-year-old explained it. “You bring something special into class and tell everyone about it.” In Vietnam, this was called bragging. In America, it was called Show and Tell. They had arrived in this country only six months ago and already her daughter was begging for things, and of all things, Sophia wanted a cat. The best Kim could offer was a movie called The Pussycats. It would be Sophia’s first ever outing to a movie theater and Kim hoped movie magic would cure her daughter’s meowing.

Although the movie outing was indulgent, she wanted to make it up to Sophia for missing their promised Fourth of July play date. Kim’s schedule consisted of ESL class in the mornings, Miss Marty’s beauty school in the afternoons, and weekend work at a beauty salon to earn extra cash. This was her first entire weekend off in two months.

She held Sophia’s hand as they walked at a brisk pace to the discounted matinee. The sun was out, her heart raced, and Kim felt alive, as if anything was possible on a day like this. When they passed a phone booth she thought, why not call him, poor guy’s probably home alone. Kim hopped in and dialed but the longer the rings grew, the more nervous she got. Every succeeding ring became shriller than the one before. The blank spaces in between them were dark pockets to spin inside and cause to hold her breath.

She was unprepared for her foolishness. After all, they’d been friends for decades. She reminded herself that Bao was all alone in this country. She reminded herself that while she had the security of her entire extended family sharing a house with her, he was living in a rented room at the Y. Her rationale gave her the strength to hold on long enough to hear the receptionist say, “Sorry he’s out.”

Because of the delay, mother and daughter ran the last two blocks to the theater. Kim was disappointed by the look of the place when she arrived out of breath. She checked the newspaper clipping in her purse. She blinked and reread the address a second time. Kim had somehow imagined an American theater to be flashier, with gilt and bright lights, and glossy posters behind shiny glass. Before her was a nondescript brown box of a building. Behind a scratchy plastic panel, a frizzy-haired young man sat reading a paperback.

Kim approached, knocked, and made her hand like a peace sign. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinted and nodded, pushed out the money tray, and returned to his reading.

Inside the darkened theater, her daughter squeezed her hand and said, “I can’t see!” It made more peculiar the silence. As they made their way up the aisle she noticed that most moviegoers were sitting alone and at wide intervals. Something simply felt odd. The room smelled sanitized as if it had been doused with a large bucket of bleach. And when she finally took a seat, it was so scratchy it felt as if she were sitting on a pineapple, This final assault reminded Kim of all the ways big and small she kept on blundering in this country. Her once keen judgment seemed constantly off-track. She was about to usher her daughter out when the projector lights flickered on. It illuminated Sophia’s black Mary-Janes which had been polished for this very occasion and shined against the glow of the screen. Sophia pointed and said as if already seduced, “Mama . . . it’s starting, look.”