One specific incident I recall, in San Francisco. He was about seven, I think. We were visiting my parents; this was something we did every so often, after the elopement had been smoothed over. Sol and the boy and I went to the theater. A Sunday matinee. I didn’t care for it. I always found the theater too artificial. But Sol loved it. "I like to be performed for," he said. Which is still the case. Afterwards we went for a walk through Chinatown. Well of course Sol got hungry, and we went into a restaurant. I don’t know why we chose that particular place, and in fact I’ve never cared for Chinese food, so I told Sol and the boy to order what they liked. Sol called the waiter over and asked him, what’ll fill me up? The waiter smiled and said, Hang Town Fry. Sol didn’t understand him. "Hang what? Come again?" Hang Town Fry, said the waiter. Eggs and oysters, very filling. And Sol said: "Eggs and oysters! Hell, why didn’t you say so?" Those were two of his favorite things to eat. "Bring us all Hang Town Fry!" But my son was pointing to a dish buried deep in the menu: Whole Steamed Fish, he said. (briefly to SOL:) "We’re having Hang Town Fry," you told him. "I want Whole Steamed Fish," my son said to me. "I want a whole thing. I want to see everything." My son had large eyes. And you told him no again but he wouldn’t give in, and the two of you actually ... argued about it. It was rather amusing, to be honest, watching my husband match wits with a seven-year-old. So I looked up at the waiter and I ordered them both. The waiter frowned and then hurried back to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what I had done, but you could feel that kind of excitement that comes from not knowing what will happen next. An older woman came out. Do you really want Whole Steamed Fish? she asked me. Yes, I assured her, we do. She stared at me for a moment, but then led us to a large aquarium by the kitchen entrance. She stood there with her arms crossed. Her mouth was twitching. Her foot was tapping the floor. The restaurant was busy. Sol and I looked at each other. We didn’t know what was expected of us. But the boy knew. "THAT one." She nodded once, the kitchen doors swung open, and out burst a surly looking chef. With his bare hands he scooped the fish out of the water. It went wild with flopping, but he dangled it as absently as a ring of keys and took it back into the kitchen. The woman began to show us back to our table. But the boy said, "I want to watch." Watch? Watch what? I want to watch, he said. There was something in the way he said it. Not, I want to watch, but, I must watch. It was the only time my son ever asked for anything. And he was asking her, not me. She put her hand on top of his head, right on the soft spot, looking at him tenderly. I looked away; I felt ... accused. Without moving her hand from his head she began to lead him into the kitchen. Sol said, "You can’t go in there!" and ordered us back to the table. But I was ... seized by an impulse—like running off with Sol when I was nineteen: I went after them in the kitchen. Well. It was another world in there. Woks and pans clattering, giant turtles crawling across counters, chased by men with cleavers, clouds of steam and eruptions of oil, and shouts in another language and fights and frenzy. I went over, and the child took my hand in his—as though he were protecting me. From what? The chef picked up a knife and sliced the fish open right down the belly. He didn’t even bother to bash its head in first. Then he snipped out the organs—I have never seen a knife so sharp. He scaled the fish in seconds and seasoned it with what seemed like very exotic sauces and spices and roots. We watched him drop the fish into a giant bamboo steamer, which he put over a pot of boiling water. A cloud of steam rose and I swear the chef disappeared in it. My son was still holding my hand. I leaned down and kissed him. I realized he was my son. Isn’t that odd? That you have a ... child? That you have one? The woman took his other hand and led us back out to the dining room. (to SOL:) It was very bright out there. I felt ... sort of ... stunned. We sat across from you at the table. You were clutching your fork. You stared at the boy as if you were going to be sick. Your face very hard. You don’t look at a child like that. He stared back at you, and let go my hand. You put your fork down. No one moved. No one spoke. Some kind of ... understanding ... was taking place ... The waiter delivered our order. Hang Town Fry and Whole Steamed Fish. The fish stared up at us with its dead white eye. You kept staring. The boy stared back. I looked at the food. Very slowly, my son picked up his fork and tasted the fish. He chewed and swallowed. Then he took another bite. Then another. Sol put on his hat and left. My heart started pounding. "Mom, try the fish." Pounding. I tried it. I realized how hungry I was. It was the best thing I have ever had. While my son and I were eating, the woman came to our table and asked us what we thought. We just smiled. My son was beaming with gratitude. I suppose I was too. She told us her name was Mrs. Chin. It was her restaurant. I asked her, why don’t you bother killing the fish before you cut it open? She said, it isn’t that we don’t bother. Death makes a bitter adrenaline that offends the palate; you must gut him while he’s still alive. The door swung open and customers blew in, and Mrs. Chin swept away to greet them. You and I—I mean, the boy and I—devoured our fish. We didn’t touch Hang Town Fry. When we got back to my parents’ house we found you sitting at the kitchen table. Your expression hadn’t changed. You told him to get out of the kitchen. Go to bed. I didn’t say anything. I poured myself a drink. You followed him upstairs, to tuck him in.