A-chieu: Fiction by Wiley Ho

Even before she entered the house, I would hear A-chieu calling to whoever might be in the courtyard “Have you eaten yet?” It was a common greeting but, in Hakka, in the way A-chieu said it, it sounded more like an accusation. 

A-chieu was our family cook when I was little in Taiwan. She would be a hundred today but in my memory, she is a woman in her prime, full of fire and the master of the flame. A stout woman with powerful limbs, her thick body darted impossibly fast between the sink and the smoking black wok licked by blue flames from below. Her flashing cleaver was an extension of her arm, slicing, chopping, fileting. Her bangs and clanging produced the most mouthwatering food: bright crisp stir-fries, three-cup chicken, steamed whole fish, and braised pork belly with mustard greens. Food of Hakka gods. 

She worked alone but managed to connect to people all day long. From our second-story kitchen, A-chieu would call down to whoever was in the courtyard below in the semi-shade of the floppy banana tree, admiring the koi in the pond. Just as someone leaned over to admire the fish yawning at the water’s surface, A-chieu would boom “Are they biting?” and make the person flap their arms like a cartoon character to keep from falling into the water. A-chieu would hoot with laughter and pull them into conversation. She would talk and talk until the person suddenly remembered they were late for some important thing. 

When there was no one else around, she would talk at me. She especially enjoyed telling me about her restaurant days. Wedding banquets were her specialty. “I can prepare a twelve-course banquet for five hundred guests in less time than it takes for the groom to get drunk!” A chieu cackled at her own joke and imitated a man teetering from side to side. She told me it was during one of these wedding banquets that she met my grandmother. 

“Your Ah-po was a guest at one of these fancy weddings. I made my famous slow braised pork belly that day. Your Ah-po took one swallow, walked straight into my kitchen and offered to pay me twice what the restaurant did. How could I refuse? But I let her beg a bit first.” 

Even though I was only little, I knew she was exaggerating. My paternal grandmother never begged. Ah-po got what she wanted with a sharp look and a wave of her index finger. That was how she could freeze a game of tag with my cousins and make us scamper from the room like panicked mice. I suspected A-chieu was not telling the truth, but I enjoyed the way she dared to talk about my grandmother. 

A-chieu also told me stories about when she was younger, how she became a widow at the age of forty when her husband crashed his motorcycle into a wall. Even though she already had four children by then, she said men came courting because she was good-looking. 

“Beauty has a way of saving you,” she said with a throaty laugh. Eventually, she remarried. By the time she discovered her new husband was a drinker and a gambler, she was already carrying his child. Some days, A-chieu showed up in our kitchen with bruises on her body. Then, she would say, “Beauty has a way of destroying you.” 

One day she arrived with a fresh bump on her face and declared it was better to be smart than beautiful. She noticed me staring and said in an unusually quiet voice, “Study hard, Little 

One, and never let men flatter you.” Even though I hadn’t started school yet, I felt the gravity of her words from the green and purple spreading down her cheek. 

When A-chieu bent down to scoop rice from the sack beside me, I reached out to touch the bruise. She jerked her head back and slapped my small hand away. I must have looked frightened because in the next moment, she dropped the rice pot and pulled me close, her thick arms enveloping my body. “Don’t worry, Little One, you won’t grow up to be like me.” Then, just as quickly as she hugged me, she let go. A-chieu went to the fridge, rummaged inside and re emerged with a handful of dried shrimp. “Now get out of my hair so I can work,” she said with her familiar laugh. 

With fistfuls of shrimp, I made my way carefully down the back stairs to the pond in our courtyard. Feeding the koi made me feel powerful. I loved the way their orange and black spines glided over each other, racing to reach me at the pond’s edge. 

I dropped one pink, pungent curl into the water after another, and watched the fish wriggle and splash to catch the treats with open mouths. Even the smallest one, the one farthest away that had no chance of getting a shrimp, had its mouth agape, as if hoping for a miracle. I wanted to reach that little koi at the outer edge. I flung the last shrimp as hard as I could. It fell somewhere in the middle of the pond and the frenzy changed direction, flipping in an orange black wave, clamoring after the prize. I watched, my heart sinking, as the bigger koi outmuscled the little one. 

*

One night, I overheard my mother tell my father that A-chieu was intolerable. Ma said it in her dangerous voice, the low one she reserved for when she was displeased, like when she caught me trying on her silk dresses after putting on her reddest lipstick. 

I was on my way to the bathroom but naturally stopped to eavesdrop. My parents’ bedroom door was ajar and I could see a sliver of the loveseat where my father was sprawled. After a long day at the hospital where both my parents worked, they liked to unwind in front of the TV. But Ma was not sitting beside Baba that night. She was pacing the room. 

“A-chieu doesn’t respect us. She gossips about us to our neighbours, the market vendors, anyone who’ll listen. Why do we put up with her?” 

“She’s a wonderful cook,” my father mumbled, his eyes on the television. His favourite samurai show was on. Onscreen, two men with partially shaved heads and top knots were facing off. They stood in their heavy black robes, a hand at the hilt of their respective swords, eyes unblinking. 

“She might be a good cook but she is unbelievably rude.” My mother’s voice grew louder as she moved closer to the tv. When my father didn’t answer, she cleared her throat and planted herself between the loveseat and the screen, squaring herself in front of the samurais. 

Baba looked up with a frown. My mother folded her arms and waited. 

“A-chieu has served three generations of this family.” My father shifted his body subtly to one side of his seat. “My mother hired her.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” My mother stood her ground. Behind her, the two samurais unsheathed their long swords. “I would have fired her long ago if not for that.” 

My father cocked his head to glimpse the samurais around my mother’s body. “A-chieu has been cooking for us since I was a teenager. She’s family.” 

My mother spun around and punched the power button on the tv set. The samurais flickered and disappeared off the screen. Baba sighed and shook his head, as if the samurais would now have to fight in vain, with no one to appreciate their showdown. 

“She’s also a thief,” my mother continued in her dangerous voice. 

Baba sat up straight. “Now that’s a pretty strong accusation. So what if she takes a few leftovers home? She has so many kids and that lazy husband of hers.” 

“It’s not about leftovers. It’s about her taking things without asking.” Ma listed items she had bought that never made it to our dining room table: fruits, mushrooms, even whole fish. Unlike other families whose cooks also shopped for groceries, my mother insisted on buying the food that would end up in our stomachs. Sometimes I tagged along with her to the market and waited and waited, while she picked through vegetables and fish. “The shinier the eyes, the better,” she would say and turn to the fishmonger to ask where the seafood had been caught. If it came from a river near the steel plant, she would put it back and choose something else. Trips to the market took so long that by the time we got home, A-chieu was already washing the rice. A chieu would tease Ma about window shopping like an indecisive city girl. Ma would say something in Holo, her mother tongue, and leave the kitchen. Once I heard A-chieu mutter “Sei-shim-po” at my mother’s departing back. I asked her why she thought my mother’s heart was small, and A-chieu laughed quickly and said it meant my mother was a conscientious woman. 

Ma’s complaints continued. “Everything disappears. The more I buy, the faster things vanish. Yesterday, a new sack of rice was delivered. Today, it’s down by half. Does she think I’m blind?” 

My father sighed again. 

“She’s getting bold. It’s like she’s testing me.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Baba muttered in a non-committal tone. 

“Did you hear me?” said Ma. “She’s out of control. If I don’t say anything, who knows what she’ll steal next?” 

Baba cleared his throat. “How can you be so sure? The kids are growing and eating more.” 

“You don’t believe me?” My mother’s voice rose. “You’d rather side with a thief?” 

“I know A-chieu skims here and there. Maybe we can consider it a gratuity for her longstanding service to our family.” Baba patted the loveseat, inviting my mother to join him. 

Ma remained standing. “It’s not right, we pay her good wages. I’m going to catch her one of these days.” 

*

As if A-chieu herself had been the one eavesdropping that night instead of me, she behaved herself for a while. I heard no more of Ma’s awful accusations, and she and A-chieu even returned to friendly chatter. A-chieu told Ma stories about the courtyard. Sometimes Ma would shake her head and sigh. Other times, if Ma caught me listening, she would clear her throat and A-chieu would quickly wrap up her story. “All I’m saying is a man has no business standing that close to a woman at the edge of a pond.” Ma clucked her tongue, which made A-chieu howl with laughter. 

On a morning like any other, my mother and I stopped at the fishmonger as usual. In a plastic tub large enough to bathe in was heaped a mound of golden-shelled clams. Ma picked a basket full. Just as the fishmonger was wrapping them up, Ma added another handful. Clams were my father’s favourite. 

When we got home, Ma immediately pulled out the parcel wrapped in newspaper. The contents knocked together with the sound of wet pebbles. She handed the package to A-chieu and said, “Before you cook them, make sure to give them a good rinse with salt to release the sand.” 

A-chieu chortled. She was already at the sink, running the cold tap. Unwrapping the paper, she let the clams fall into their bath. 

Ma hesitated but tried again. “Apparently, vinegar works too.” 

A-chieu cackled. “Are you teaching me how to prepare clams? I know your husband loves these. I started cooking clams for him long before you showed up, Young Boss.” 

“I’m just repeating what the fish monger said.” My mother brushed a hair behind her ear and watched as A-chieu plucked an open clam from the sink and drop it into the garbage. A chieu transferred the clams to a colander and fired up the stove. For a few seconds, there was only the sound was hissing gas. Then A-chieu’s lightening fingers stroked a match and blue flames leapt into the air. She shifted the black wok over the fire. 

“Don’t worry, Boss, I’ll take care of the clams. You go take care of your good looks.” A chieu often complimented my mother on her silky skin and beautiful eyes. Even though it was obvious my mother was beautiful, A-chieu said after women had children, they needed reminding they were still attractive. Her compliments often made Ma smile, but not today. 

Ma’s eyes flashed. She opened and closed her mouth again like the koi in the pond. Finally, she said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Why don’t you use the new steamer to cook the clams?” 

“What steamer?” A-chieu swirled the contents of the wok and the smell of hot garlic filled the air. “Clams are better in the wok.” 

Ma’s face marbled into stone. She strode over to the kitchen cupboards and began to open them, flinging each door wide to reveal the contents: stacked bowls, dried goods, pots, cleaning supplies. She reached for the highest cabinets, then stooped for the bottom row. When all the cupboards were open, Ma straightened up and took a deep breath. “A-chieu, where is the new steamer?” 

A cupboard door creaked shut. 

Without looking up, A-chieu lifted the colander of clams from the sink and upended it into the wok. White steam sizzled up. With a hand on the wok handle, A-chieu shook the wok and the clams crashed together. 

“I don’t know what you’re going on about. If you bought something and hid it on yourself, don’t be asking me about it.” A-chieu’s voice was light, like she was about to break into a laugh. She gave the clams in the wok another toss. 

My mother waited for A-chieu to finish cooking. When she spoke again, her voice was as flat as the countertop she was gripping. 

“You must realize, A-chieu, that I have been very, very patient with you.” 

A-chieu moved around my mother with the wok and gracefully tipped the clams into a serving dish. Tan-coloured clams clattered onto porcelain, trailing ribbons of basil and red chili. 

“Most employers would not tolerate your behaviour.” My mother stood up straight and folded her arms. 

A-chieu set the wok back on the burner with a crash. 

“What are you trying to say, Young Boss?” A-chieu picked up the platter of clams. She walked right by me into the dining room. My mother followed. Neither woman seemed to notice I was standing at the wall that separated the kitchen and the dining room. 

A-chieu set the clams down on the lazy susan, next to other dishes she’d prepared before my mother showed up late with the clams. 

My stomach rumbled. 

 Ma blocked A-chieu from returning to the kitchen. “Do you take me for a fool? That I wouldn’t notice things going missing in my own kitchen?” 

A-chieu chuckled. “With all due respect, Boss, you barely set foot in the kitchen.” 

My mother ignored A-chieu’s comment. “I haven’t wanted to say anything until now, on account of your long service with this family.” 

“Exactly.” A-chieu twirled the lazy susan and rearranged the plates of food. “I’ve been faithful to this family for three generations. How could you accuse me of disloyalty?” 

“I didn’t call you disloyal.” My mother sucked in a breath and stared at A-chieu, but A chieu refused to look at her. “Listen, I don’t mind if you take leftovers, but –” 

“Maybe Boss forgets what she buys. She buys so many things.” A-chieu moved the platter of clams to the centre of the table. 

Ma exhaled sharply. “A-chieu, all I’m saying is I bought a new steamer and put it in the kitchen yesterday. Today, it is not there.” 

A-chieu stepped around my mother. As she passed me on her way to the kitchen, she patted the top of my head. “I bet you’re hungry, Little One. Go get your father before lunch gets cold.” 

Gratefully, I trotted off but not before I heard Ma say, “I will say this only once. The steamer needs to find its way back by morning.” 

The next morning, the steamer did not return. Neither did A-chieu. 

My mother checked the empty kitchen again and again. By noon, when it was clear that our cook was not coming in to prepare lunch, my mother picked up the phone. A-chieu’s husband answered. My mother identified herself and asked for A-chieu. There was yelling from the other end of the phone and then the line went dead. 

Lunch was a quiet that day. My parents exchanged looks of mutual disapproval. The lazy susan looked forlorn with just one plate of scrambled eggs and a pot of reheated rice. When my father asked if there was anything else for lunch, Ma scraped her chair back from the table and stalked into the kitchen. She returned with a tin of fried dace and a jar of pickles. She placed them on the lazy susan and gave it a wild spin. Baba and I looked at each other and continued eating in silence. 

Finally, Ma said she would pay A-chieu a visit after lunch. Baba nodded in relief. When I said I would go too, Ma shook her head at first. But then she studied my face and slowly nodded. “Yes, you come too. I think you can convince her better than I can.” 

A-chieu’s house was less than a kilometre from ours, so we decided to walk. At the last minute, with our outside shoes already on, Ma rushed back into the house for a bag of oranges. “Never show up empty-handed.” Ma handed me the oranges and opened up her umbrella against the intense midday sun. 

Partway to A-chieu’s house, we passed the banquet restaurant where my grandmother had first discovered A-chieu. And right there, under the entrance awning, was A-chieu laughing with the restaurant owner. Her back was turned but we could hear her roaring in Hakka. “My Young Boss may be pretty but she doesn’t know a thing about cooking. I bet her husband and kid are starving by now.”

Beside me, I felt my mother stiffen. She hesitated, then turned in the direction of home, pulling at my arm for me to follow. But I tugged free and called out to A-chieu. 

A-chieu turned and saw me. I was already halfway to her when I stopped and looked back at my mother. The air felt scorching and full of static, as the two most important women in my life faced off, their cheeks in matching crimson. 

I held up the bag of oranges. 

Instead of A-chieu, the restaurant owner came over to me. “Are those for me?” He was ancient with terrible breath. I shook my head and clutched the sack to my chest. This made him chuckle, sending down more foul air. “Have you eaten yet?” he said in Hakka and I glared at him. 

A-chieu came to my rescue. She waved the old man off and picked me up in a hug. I surrendered to her and let her crush me and the oranges to her chest. “Don’t tell me you miss me already, Little One?” 

I started to cry and A-chieu rumbled a full-bodied chuckle. She shifted me over to one hip and walked over to my mother. She smiled and said, “Hello, Young Boss.” 

Ma smiled back. “Hello, A-chieu.” 

Relief quivered through my body. Even though my mother did not say the formal words she had rehearsed on our walk and A-chieu was strangely tongue-tied, I knew A-chieu would be returning to us. As the two women exchanged quiet looks, something hovered between them like two magnets of the same pole. Neither of them would mention it again but, that day, I gained an understanding – that an apology could be offered and accepted without a single word.

Wiley Wei-Chiun Ho (she/her) writes short stories, personal essays, and memoir. Her work has appeared in various magazines, journals, and anthologies. When dodging her desk, she can be found growing Asian vegetables in her frontyard or hugging trees in her backyard. Find Wiley at www.wileyweichiunho.com or on IG: @howiley

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