Thank you in advance for your reviews!

The Fowler Cooper Publication Federation

July 2020

Primary Topic: The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

Additional book(s) mentioned: Joy of Cooking by Irma S. Rombauer

All was quiet. The only sounds were Sheldon's fingers on his keyboard or the click of his mouse. He didn't even talk to Siri; he had mastered computers before she existed, and, although he found it useful to give her a command while he was walking through a room, when he was sitting down to work he liked it to just be him and his brain. The first dynamic duo. He could feel the summer sun on his back. Amy must have fallen asleep behind him, reading in her Eames chair. He hadn't heard her move in awhile. She preferred the glare shades up when she read, he knew, but they were going to have to close them soon as he was already getting some reflection on the corner of his screen. But he would wait as long as he could for her.

As the sun shifted further, the reflection became of Amy in her chair. He had surmised correctly, she wasn't reading anymore, her Kindle hanging limply in her hand; but she wasn't sleeping, either. She was staring out the window, her eyes vacant. Sheldon watched her reflection for a bit before turning in his chair.

"Amy?" he asked softly.

"Hmmmm?" she replied. Then she seemed to shake and sit up a little straighter. "Sorry, do we need to close the shades?"

"Maybe. Are you alright?"

"I don't feel ill," she said, turning her head back toward the window.

"That's not what I meant."

Amy sighed loudly. Sheldon thought about leaving it, then; it seemed Amy didn't want to talk about it. But Amy responded, "I'm thinking about Ada."

Sheldon knew that. All day, he had known that, even before Ada left. "I'm sure she's fine. She's been out on play dates before. It's only a couple of hours."

"That's not what I meant."

He smiled softly, wondering if Amy realized she had just repeated what he said. No, she didn't. Using his feet, he rolled his chair closer to her. "Amy, I understand this is difficult. I share your concerns. However, we both know that even your mother, despite her faults, is capable of keeping a child alive for two hours without harm. Besides, I thought you were pleased. I thought you wanted your mother to try and take a more active role in her granddaughter's life. You felt this was a sign that she really was trying to turn over a new leaf, as you put it." He paused. "But I also have no qualms about leaving and going to get Ada and bringing her home right now, if that's what you want."

Amy turned to looked at him then. "No. As I told you, I believe very strongly that both Ada and my mother deserve the opportunity to have a relationship. I will never deny either of them that." Then she turned back toward the window and said softly, "But she never once took me to a book store when I was young."

"That's because we were raised in the eighties. Before everything had to be structured and scheduled, with names. There were no play dates for us, there was just -" he raised the pitch of his voice - "'you're driving me crazy with all your science gibberish, go outside and play in the street like a normal boy.' Now there are special events at book stores just for two-year-olds, because they are apparently incapable of enjoying it otherwise." Sheldon wondered if that was the correct response, the right tactic to take, or if she would be frustrated that he replied so lightly.

But Amy turned and smiled softly at him, and Sheldon relaxed. "Do you want to watch a movie or something?"

"No. Maybe later."

"You could take a long nap," Sheldon suggested. "I'll put Ada down when she gets back."

"I'm not sleepy."

"Book Club?"

Amy raised her eyebrows. "In the middle of the afternoon? You don't like that. You like everything structured and scheduled with names in capital letters."

Sheldon shrugged. "Maybe I'm taking my mother's advise."

"Oh, do you want to have it outside, on the sidewalk benches? That's as close to the middle of the street as I recommend."

"Don't push it, little lady."

Amy laughed and swung her legs off the footstool. To Sheldon, it a wonderful sound, the sound of her melancholy leaving. Closing his work, he followed Amy to the sofa, the most frequent spot for their book discussions.

"So, The Joy Luck Club?" he prompted.

"Yes," Amy nodded. "I picked it because . . . huh."

"What?"

She took a breath. "I picked it because I've never read any Amy Tan; she's very popular, very well respected, and a Californian writer. I thought I should read at least one of her books. And this is widely considered her best. But . . . well . . . it's about mothers and daughters, isn't it?"

"Indeed. There was a plethora of estrogen wafting from its pages," Sheldon added, hoping to keep it light, hoping to keep Amy's dark thoughts at bay. "But it's not just about that, you know. It's about cultural transitioning, immigrant identity, and miscommunication."

"I know." Amy nodded. "It's hard to understand some of it, not being an immigrant myself or the first-generation child of one. There are so many experiences that we just take for granted, that we don't even think about. That's probably not good."

"I don't know." Sheldon shrugged. "Maybe that's the goal all immigrants are striving for, hoping for their children. To not have to think about it. We're a nation of immigrants, of people who left things behind."

"Yes, we're a nation of immigrants, but while reading this book I was thinking how much better it is now, when it seems - at least to me, looking in from the outside as it were - that immigrants are more proud of their heritage than when this book took place. The daughters in this book were never taught to speak Chinese, for example. How sad. And look at all the miscommunications it led to, not having the right words, the right connotations, not being able to understand the subtleties of language and the stories that were told."

"You have to remember that all the daughters were little girls in the 1950s. Only a decade after World War II, a decade after the internment camps. Even though they're Chinese, not Japanese, I'm certain many people at the time weren't bothering to learn the difference," Sheldon pointed out.

"This is so depressing," Amy said softly.

"It was a depressing situation. And a depressing book," Sheldon said.

Amy looked up at him. "You didn't like it?"

"Not especially. It was too depressing." He licked his lips. "Did you like it?"

"Yes, very much. But I can't explain it to you. Is that strange?"

"Extremely."

Amy smiled. "I know. But it's true. I guess it's about people who love each other, who have inescapable bonds, but don't actually like each other."

Sheldon raised his eyebrows. "Do you think they wanted to escape?"

"At least some of them. At least part of the time. Waverly should escape her mother, that woman was horrible, poisoning her against everything she loved."

Taking a deep breath, Sheldon started to speak, to cross the bridge he'd been avoiding, "Amy, are you talking about -"

"Food," Amy interrupted him.

"Food?" he asked, startled.

"They still cooked and ate and enjoyed Chinese food. They gathered around the food. Food was the connection."

"Oh, yes, I guess so." Sheldon was flummoxed by this turn in conversation. Had Amy sensed what he was about to ask, was this her way of telling him that she didn't want to discuss it? At least not now, with Ada out there, alone with Amy's mother?

"When I was . . . seven . . ." Focusing in the middle distance, Amy looked away and her voice became dreamy, "there was a several month period of time that Aunt Flora started to do something everything Monday evening. I don't remember what, bridge or something. Anyway, she wasn't there when I got home for school, the neighbor lady was, and she didn't leave a hot dinner for Mother and I to eat when she arrived home, invariably late, from the newspaper." Amy turned back suddenly. "Did I ever tell you that Mother can't cook? She's awful at it, she burns everything. Flora did all the cooking. I helped and she taught me."

Sheldon nodded, having been told about - and having benefitted from - Aunt Flora's cooking lessons.

Amy's face softly rotated again, as she resumed her story. "But Mother makes the best grilled cheese sandwich. It's a complete fluke, it's the only thing she can make other than cereal and it's wonderful. Tons of cheese, so gooey and stringy. Much better than Aunt Flora's. The first Monday she put Spaghetti-O's in a pan, went to take off her work clothes, and they burned." Amy chuckled softly. "After we had opened all the windows and had to throw the whole pan in the trash outside, she told me to go ahead and put on my nightgown and she'd make grilled cheese. When I came back, she put the plates in the living room, and she said we could eat there and watch Jeopardy!" Even as Sheldon raised his eyebrows, Amy continued, "That was never allowed of course. I guess she felt guilty or something, it was so late. Anyway, we sat on the sofa together, in our nightgowns, eating grilled cheese, watching Jeopardy! And then when the sandwiches were eaten, I leaned against her and she took my hand. The next week, she didn't even try anything other than grilled cheese. Every Monday for months, grilled cheese in our nightgowns, Jeopardy!, and she held my hand."

Sheldon cleared his throat. "You liked it?" he whispered.

His wife turned to him, not with the watery eyes he expected, but with a smile. "Yes. It's one of my fondest memories."

Smiling back, Sheldon asked, "Do you want to know one of mine?"

After Amy nodded, he said, "The grocery store. George and Missy weren't allowed to go, except in rare instances. They would run and scream and demand cookies and candy. But I would sit in the cart and do the math. I would add up how much everything cost, figure in the sales tax, and occasionally Mom would ask how much she'd spent. There was a budget. Or sometimes she'd ask which was a better value, and I'd divide the total cost by the portions and give her the unit cost." He shrugged. "It was so easy, you see, it just happened in my mind without trying, the numbers just aligned themselves. I could have done it while running around and screaming. But it was just me and Mom, and I knew if I sat still and did it, we could be alone together."

"What a great story," Amy said softly.

"And there was laundry. We'd fold it together at the dining room table. I liked making the folds straight, counting the clothes, adjusting the heights of the piles - oh," Sheldon stopped abruptly.

"What?" Amy prompted.

"I'm sorry, Amy. I shouldn't list all of them, because . . . well . . . " He put out his hand in a hopeless gesture. It wasn't fair, was it?, to mention several happy memories when Amy only had this one, these handful of brief evenings her mother wanted to hold her hand.

"Wait here," Amy said, jumping off the sofa.

Sheldon sat, surprised, as he listened to her go down the hallway and rummage in the weird little closet at the end where they kept rarely used items. Coming back, she carried the archival-quality box she had bought to put the few things she had got from Aunt Flora when she passed away. She lifted out items Sheldon had seen before: Flora's well tattered Joy of Cooking with notes in the margins that Amy said was too frail to actually use in the kitchen, some paperwork, a pair of gloves that Flora wore long after ladies stopped wearing gloves, a few other pieces of ephemera. At the bottom, Amy pulled out an envelope, yellowed with age.

"I didn't show you these. Because my mother hates them. She would die if she knew I had them, let alone if you saw them." Opening the envelope, Amy took out a photograph and handed it to him. It was also fading, the colors strange, no quite real anymore, like an Instagram filter.

He looked down at the scene. The beach, the edge of a blanket in the foreground. Several feet away, just where the surf was rolling in, the backs of two people, holding hands. A little girl, in a neon orange swimsuit and a woman in a old-fashioned looking swim dress. Both with the same pale skin, the little girl's hair the color of mud, the woman's hair, glimmering and glinting in the sun, an unusual combination of gold and red and caramel. That came through, even though the rest of photo was fading. Sheldon sucked in his breath. That color, he knew it well.

"This is your mother? In a swimsuit? At the beach?"

Nodding, Amy leaned closer to look herself. "Mother loves to swim. She's who taught me to swim; I never had formal lessons. We used to go sometimes on Sundays. Usually just the two of us. But Flora went that day and took pictures. All of these before my mother know she had brought her camera."

"Her hair," Sheldon said. "Even in the picture, it . . . it's like radium. Like Ada's. It doesn't sparkle like that now."

"Oh, no," Amy laughed, "she's dyed it for years now, don't you know? She can get the shade close, but not the same highlights. You can't get that from a bottle. But she'll probably dye it until the day she dies. She's always been vain about her hair, she knows it was her crowning glory. Quite literally. There are pictures of her as a teenager, it so long, down to her waist."

"Then why did she cut it?" Sheldon asked, looking at the hair in the photo that barely grazed his mother-in-law's shoulders. It was still that length.

"It could have been the style. Long hair in the seventies when she was a teenager, but everyone went short in the eighties," Amy said, dismissively.

Sheldon looked up at her. "You don't believe that."

"No." Amy looked down, quickly. Then she whispered, "It was her scarlet letter, I think. She cut it while she was pregnant."

"Oh, Amy, I -"

"No, it's okay," Amy said, looking back up. "Happy memories, remember? Nothing depressing like the book. Here, look at the rest. It's strange to me now; I always thought of my mother as an old woman, and then I look at these and she was so young, only in her twenties when I was little."

Sheldon took the short stack of photos. The swimmers were further out now, turned toward each other, Amy splashing her mother. Cynthia Fowler's arms were up, to try and block the water, but she was smiling. Actually, really, smiling. In the next photo, there were just a couple of heads visible above the water, smaller and further away. Then they were walking back, holding hands again, Cynthia looking down at little Amy, Amy looking up at her, and they were smiling at each other again, clearly having a wonderful time.

These photos seemed so bizarre to him. They were like nothing he'd ever seen before. Not just his mother-in-law smiling and wearing so few clothes, not even her unexpected beauty - she was stunning here - but the intimacy, the joy. He felt a bit intrusive, like he was stealing a private moment. He understood why his mother-in-law didn't want these photos to be seen.

He flipped to the last one. Different than the others, obviously posed. Amy with a towel wrapped around her shoulders, clutching it tightly. Cynthia had covered up her bathing suit with some sort of white, long sleeved flowing tunic. They were standing next to each other, Cynthia's arm around Amy in the hesitant way he had seen in other photographs, with that insincere, tight smile that he always thought was the only one she ever made before today. Amy wasn't smiling.

"I take it this was after you mother discovered the camera," Sheldon said. "You look unhappy here."

Amy leaned over. "Because they'd fought, Mother and Flora, about the other pictures. I always hated that."

She reached out for the pictures, and Sheldon handed them back. As she rearranged the box, she said, "I guess these pictures are what I wanted to explain to you about the book. Near the end, Ying-Ying talks about being a mother. That to be a mother and also a daughter, those connections are unique in the world. You were carried by someone else and then you carry someone who will one day, maybe, carry her own daughter. It's a connection, a unbroken string of giving yourself so fully the creation of another person." Amy shrugged. "I don't know, maybe males feel that way, too, about their fathers and sons. The daughters in this book do not yet understand what joy luck is - they say it is not a word, because it does not exist in English. But, really, they don't understand because they are not yet mothers themselves. Joy luck is about making the best out of the circumstances you find yourself in when you become a mother." Then she added, with finality, "I did not fully understand these pictures at the beach until I become a mother."

Amy leaned forward and sat the box on the coffee table. Sheldon looked at her, in something between amazement and confusion. She had obviously said something so profound, something he could tell that she had discovered and that had given her peace, and yet . . . "Amy, I don't understand."

"I know," she said softly, turning her green eyes to him.

Sheldon understood then that it was not meant for him to understand, not fully. He was being left out, as he was meant to be left out. He was not part of this unbroken string of mothers and daughters. That didn't lessen his importance, to his mother, to Amy, to Ada, but he was important in a different way. Amy could not replicate his importance to Ada and he could not replicate hers. When he had read the ancient Chinese definition of ying and yang in this book, he had thought it sounded sexist and he had been waiting for Amy to rail against it. But perhaps there was another definition: the balancing act of parenting together, the gifts and guidance they each brought for their daughter. He believed that because he was present to help, there would more happy memories for Ada, that she wouldn't have to hide them in a box in the closet until they stopped confusing her.

"Would you . . . would you like me to digitize those photos for you?" he asked, hesitant. "And then you would have them to share with Ada?"

"Oh, Sheldon . . . yes," Amy whispered. Again, she didn't cry, she just looked at him with so much love it hurt.

Then the buzzer sounded, the harsher one that meant someone was in the vestibule downstairs. Sheldon silently cursed it, the spell of . . . whatever this had become . . . broken. Amy got up and went to the intercom. "Hello?"

"It's your mother, dear. And Ada, of course," came back the staticy voice.

"Come on up." Amy pressed the button and turned toward Sheldon. "Maybe we should give her the code? All our friends have it."

"I think we should give her Stuart and Raj's code instead."

Amy smiled but put her finger to her lips. She opened the door to their home, and Sheldon came to join her as they both listened for the elevator to stop and open on their floor.

"Mama!" They heard Ada running before they saw her, and then they were both at the door.

Sheldon begrudgingly felt impressed. Ada was still in one piece, including her hair which always befuddled him. Cynthia Fowler looked as posed and draconian as ever, no signs upon her immaculate clothing that she had just spent two hours with a two-year-old. How did she do it? And he still struggled to reconcile this immaculate woman in front of him with that photograph of a smiling, happy, bathing-suit clad beauty.

Ada was hugging Amy, who had bent down. "Did you have a good time, sweetheart?"

"Grandma bought me books!"

Cynthia handed over a green plastic bag to Sheldon. "I hope that's acceptable."

Sheldon nodded, taking the sack, but Amy answered, "Of course. We love books, don't we, Ada?"

"Yes!" Ada cheered, doing a little dance.

"Ada, do you have to use the bathroom?" Amy asked.

"Yes."

"Tell Grandmother good-bye and thank you. We'll use the bathroom and then go take our nap."

"But I don't want -"

"Ada," Sheldon said sharply, "you'll do what your mother says."

Chastised, Ada suddenly lunged and wrapped her body around Cynthia's legs. "Thank you, Grandma." Then his mother-in-law reached down and ran her hand lovingly through Ada's hair. Sheldon actually took a step back before Ada broke away from the tender moment with her grandmother, waved, and ran toward the bathroom. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, dear. It was lovely to see you." Cynthia Fowler waved back, as Amy and Ada disappeared down the hallway.

Sheldon now found himself in the extremely uncomfortable situation of being alone with his mother-in-law. Uncomfortable on the best of days, but now he felt like he knew all her secrets. Thank goodness his own mother had trained him well.

"Uh," he shut the door. "Would you like a hot beverage?"

"Yes, thank you."

Sheldon walked to the kitchen, sat the bag of books on the island, and put the tea kettle on. He got down the tea caddy and set it in front of Cynthia, who was standing next to the island. "Please, have a seat."

Cynthia eyed the stool wearily.

"Would you prefer the dining table? I can bring your tea there," Sheldon asked.

"No, no, this is fine, I'm sure." She sat down rather stiffly. "I know this is terribly rude of me, but I don't suppose you have any coffee?"

"I don't do any drugs, including stimulants such as caffeine, as a promise to my mother," Sheldon answered.

"Of course. I remember that, now."

"Um," Sheldon hated this, it was getting worse by the minute, "we have hot cocoa."

"That would be delightful, thank you."

Practically diving into the pantry, Sheldon pretended he was looking for the hot cocoa even though he knew exactly where it was. The stirring of the tea kettle pulled him out. "Got it!" he said, his voice falsely high.

His mother-in-law just nodded. Sheldon set to work mixing her hot cocoa and his own tea. Sitting the steaming mug in front of her, he decided to remain standing, on the other side of the island. It seemed safer that way.

"I hope Amy doesn't have trouble getting Ada down for a nap. I didn't give her any caffeine. Although we had lemonade at Panera. I hope that's acceptable. When Amy was a child, McDonald's was the standard treat of choice. I would allow her French fries and Coke with her Happy Meal. I understand that's frowned upon these days."

Yet another new thing Sheldon had to try to wrap his mind around: his mother-in-law at McDonald's. It seemed so incongruent with the woman sitting before him. And Amy never mentioned going there with her mother. "Did you take her there often?"

Cynthia shook her head. "No. It was a treat. Flora took her occasionally. As I'm sure Amy has told you, I worked a great deal." She paused and frowned. "I regret that now. I missed so much of her childhood."

Shifting slightly on his feet, Sheldon took an overly long drink of his tea. The last person on Earth he wanted to discuss feelings with was the woman sitting across from him.

"Chick-fil-a," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Amy prefers Chick-fil-a as a fast food option for Ada, if necessary. Although she feels conflicted about their pseudo-religious business practices, she believes the menu contains healthier options. Kids meals options include organic fruit cups and cinnamon apple sauce. She pays extra for the free range grilled chicken nuggets. And skim milk to drink, of course. Chipotle is also an acceptable option but you have to made sure you request vegetables in the child's cheese quesadilla."

"Of course. I'll remember that in the future. But what do you prefer?"

Sheldon started, almost spilling some tea as the mug came close to his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"You said Amy prefers Chick-fil-a. What do you prefer?" Her eyes were boring into him.

Drat. He should have been more careful with his word choice. Words, after all, were how his mother-in-law made her living. He considered lying. But she would probably see through that, too, given that Amy was always telling him he was a horrible liar. Maybe he could side-step the issue. "Well, I like a good French fry sometimes, too."

Cynthia smiled. Genuinely smiled. If he hadn't seen it in the photograph earlier, he wouldn't have believed it possible. Sheldon broke out in sweat. He had never seen that before today, and even when he saw it in the picture, he didn't think he'd ever see it in front of him.

"I know I promised Amy that there would be no more secrets," Cynthia said, still smiling, "but I think it won't hurt if I keep this little one for you, will it?"

Sheldon clenched the handle of his mug tighter. It was so much fun: Ada in her red booster seat, doing the puzzle on the side of the Happy Meal box together, sharing greasy French fries and ketchup with her . . . Could he do it, though? Could he make this pact?

"Maybe not," he mumbled into his mug of tea.

He was rescued by the sound of Amy's steps approaching. "That was easier than I expected. You must have wore her out, Mother," she said.

"She was an absolute delight, dear. So well behaved. Seeing her with the other two-year olds, I realized she has an extremely impressive vocabulary. You should be proud." Cynthia stood.

"Of course we're proud. She's the first of her kind," Sheldon answered.

His mother-in-law gave him a confused look. "I see." She turned back to Amy. "I should be leaving. Thank you again for the opportunity."

"Anytime, Mother," Amy answered.

Cynthia put her arms out, causing Sheldon to almost choke on his tea. He saw Amy's eyes widen in equal surprise. She stepped forwardly stiffly, and allowed her mother's arms to surround her.

"I love you all, dear," Cynthia said.

Amy's eyes met Sheldon's over her mother's shoulder. She mouthed some word he could not catch. He just shrugged and turned up his free palm in reply. He was just as confused and lost. Amy patted her mother's back. "You too, Mother."

Then Cynthia pulled away, and Amy walked her to the door. Sheldon relaxed back, resting against the edge of the countertop, as the last good-byes were said. After shutting the door, Amy walked over to him. He held out the mug of tea he had prepared for her when he made his own. She took it and stood next to him, leaning herself. They both leaned and stared into the great room in front of them.

"She hugged me," Amy said.

"She smiled at me," Sheldon said.

"Huh," they said in unison, both taking a drink of tea at the same time, both thinking of those Sundays on the beach.

The corresponding After Dark chapter is Chapter 35: The Usual, Revisited.