Success, Race, and Immigration Theme Analysis

There were occasions when the clear running truth seemed to eddy, when he would pinch the vinyl of his chair up into little peaks and wonder if he was doing things right. But with time he would always smooth the peaks back down; and when business started to slide in the spring, he kept on like a horse in his ways.

“You know, the Chinese have a saying,” said my mother. “To do nothing is better than to overdo. You mean well, but you tell me now what will happen.”

“So what else I should do?” My father threw up his hands. “Those are my boys.”

“Your boys!” exploded my mother. “What about your family? What about your wife?”

My father took a long sip of tea. “You know,” he said finally, “in the war my father sent our cook to the soldiers to use. He always said it—the province comes before the town, the town comes before the family.”

“A restaurant is not a town,” said my mother.

“Maybe this suit not fit me,” fretted my father.

“Just don’t take your jacket off,” said the salesgirl.

He gave her a tip before they left, but when he got home, he refused to remove the price tag.

Of course, my father tried to eat a cracker full of shallots, and burned himself in an attempt to help Mr. Lardner turn the coals of the barbecue; but on the whole, he seemed to be doing all right. Not nearly so well as my mother, though, who had accepted an entire cupful of Mrs. Lardner’s magic punch and indeed seemed to be under some spell. […] I watched my mother take off her shoes, laughing and laughing as a man with a beard regaled her with navy stories by the pool. Apparently he had been stationed in the Orient and remembered a few words of Chinese, which made my mother laugh still more.

Jeremy began to roar. “This is my party, my party, and I’ve never seen you before in my life.” My father backed up as Jeremy came toward him. “Who are you? WHO ARE YOU?”

“Take off your shirt.”

“I do not taking orders like a servant,” announced my father stiffly.

“Take off your shirt, or I’m going to throw this jacket right into the pool, just right into this little pool here.” Jeremy held it over the water.

“Go ahead.”

“One hundred twelve-fifty,” taunted Jeremy. “One hundred twelve …”

My father flung the polo shirt into the water with such force that part of it bounced back up into the air like a fluorescent fountain. Then it settled into a soft heap on top of the water.

“You girls are good swimmers,” he said finally. “Not like me.”

Then his shirt started moving again, and we trooped up the hill after it, into the dark.