When the newcomers first arrived in Haven, they found a smallish city near a lake. On the margins of the city, Americans were hard at work, building avenues lined with newer stores, businesses, restaurants. Busy living out their own tragedies and triumphs. Paying little attention. The newcomers were noticeable, with their Asian faces. But their dreams and aspirations were an open secret. Visible, but invisible.
You could say that until the death of Leo Chao, their lives were private. No one paid them much attention.
Now they receive subtle stares when they walk down the street. It’s awkward, it is mortifying. After all, they’re not the Chaos; the Chaos’ shame isn’t their shame. It’s true their children grew up with Dagou, Ming, and James. They celebrated Christmas with the Chaos for decades, and everyone makes Winnie’s recipe for red-cooked pork. And it’s true you couldn’t help sensing something wrong. Sensing, over the years, a curiosity growing about that house and the three boys. Too much privacy in their smooth faces like shuttered windows. But doesn’t every family have its own closed windows and closed doors? Isn’t every family a walled fortress of stories unknown even to its neighbors? Disobedience of sons to their mothers, wives to their husbands, and men to their own old mothers? 150