The Joy Luck Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

camphor, it feels the same—as if Rose, Ruth, and Janice might soon walk in with their hair rolled up in big orange-juice cans and plop down on their identical narrow beds. The white chenille bedspreads are so worn they are almost translucent. Rose and I used to pluck the nubs out while talking about our boy problems. Everything is the same, except now a mahogany-colored mah jong table sits in the center. And next to it is a floor lamp, a long black pole with three oval spotlights attached like the broad leaves of a rubber plant.
    Nobody says to me, “ Sit here, this is where your mother used to sit.” But I can tell even before everyone sits down. The chair closest to the door has an emptiness to it. But the feeling doesn’t really have to do with the chair. It’s her place on the table. Without having anyone tell me, I know her corner on the table was the East.
    The East is where things begin, my mother once told me, the direction from which the sun rises, where the wind comes from.
    Auntie An-mei, who is sitting on my left, spills the tiles onto the green felt tabletop and then says to me, “Now we wash tiles.” We swirl them with our hands in a circular motion. They make a cool swishing sound as they bump into one another.
    â€œDo you win like your mother?” asks Auntie Lin across from me. She is not smiling.
    â€œI only played a little in college with some Jewish friends.”
    â€œAnnh! Jewish mah jong,” she says in disgusted tones. “Not the same thing.” This is what my mother used to say, although she could never explain exactly why.
    â€œMaybe I shouldn’t play tonight. I’ll just watch,” I offer.
    Auntie Lin looks exasperated, as though I were a simple child: “How can we play with just three people? Like a table with three legs, no balance. When Auntie Ying’s husband died, she asked her brother to join. Your father asked you. So it’s decided.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference between Jewish and Chinese mah jong?” I once asked my mother. I couldn’t tell by her answer if the games were different or just her attitude toward Chinese and Jewish people.
    â€œEntirely different kind of playing,” she said in her English explanation voice. “Jewish mah jong, they watch only for their own tile, play only with their eyes.”
    Then she switched to Chinese: “Chinese mah jong, you must play using your head, very tricky. You must watch what everybody else throws away and keep that in your head as well. And if nobody plays well, then the game becomes like Jewish mah jong. Why play? There’s no strategy. You’re just watching people make mistakes.”
    These kinds of explanations made me feel my mother and I spoke two different languages, which we did. I talked to her in English, she answered back in Chinese.
    â€œSo what’s the difference between Chinese and Jewish mah jong?” I ask Auntie Lin.
    â€œAii-ya,” she exclaims in a mock scolding voice. “Your mother did not teach you anything?”
    Auntie Ying pats my hand. “You a smart girl. You watch us, do the same. Help us stack the tiles and make four walls.”
    I follow Auntie Ying, but mostly I watch Auntie Lin. She is the fastest, which means I can almost keep up with the others by watching what she does first. Auntie Ying throws the dice and I’m told that Auntie Lin has become the East wind. I’ve become the North wind, the last hand to play. Auntie Ying is the South and Auntie An-mei is the West. And then we start taking tiles, throwing the dice, counting back on the wall to the right number of spots where our chosen tiles lie. I rearrange my tiles, sequences of bamboo and balls, doubles of colored number tiles, odd tiles that do not fit anywhere.
    â€œYour mother was the best, like a pro,” says Auntie An-mei while slowly sorting her tiles, considering each piece carefully.
    Now we begin to play, looking at