The Hand Squeeze

We met the winter of my sophomore year in college. I was a newbie to everything and anything America, including taking an inter-state train and ordering a dinner on it. But there I was, alone, sitting in the dome car of an Amtrak train leaving Chicago and heading south to Florida. I was en route to an adventure, greater in scope than I could have imagined, but at the time I thought confined to seeing my aunt and cousins in Ocala.

I was sitting at a window seat. In my memories, the window was to my left. The seat next to mine was vacant. It was vacant for several hours until he showed up.

Young, tall, and thin, he came with notebooks in hand. He sat at the vacant seat next to mine. He might have said a greeting. He asked me where I was from. My answer took him aback. He did not expect “Vietnam.” Later he said he only knew Vietnam as in “The Vietnam War.” Also later he said he had traveled far and was tired that day and did not want to engage in conversations. He wanted to find a “quiet” spot to sit and was happy to find a seat next to mine as I looked like someone who would be quiet and would leave him alone. I don’t blame him for thinking so. I am petite. I wore a pair of black shoes with red socks and dressed in hand-me-down clothes with no jewelry or cosmetic. I looked like a little girl.

I was reading. The book was “The Once and Future King,” one that I had borrowed from a boyfriend whom I was willing to leave behind to go embark on a new educational opportunity. As it was only the second year of my immigrating into this country, I was weak in English. As I read, I took notes of new words. Among the unfamiliar words were “decent” and “self-serving." Those two were the ones that made into memories and written records. I asked him for help and he readily obliged.

Was it that I wanted to return a favor? Was it stupidity? Was it drunkenness? (Not caused by alcohol.) Was it fate? Whatever it was, it happened. I leaned over, seeing that he was working on math problems, to ask if he wanted help. How dreadful. How presumptuous. How unlike me, a shy and cautious person. If it happened today, I’d have buried my embarrassment elsewhere. It must have been fate. Not only was he not recoiled from it, he was charmed, he was enchanted, he was intrigued, he was lured into a spell, one that I unknowingly and innocently casted and he willingly entered. He was a graduate student in mathematics. I was a sophomore in college, majoring in biology. No, he did not need help, but if he did, I was not one to provide it, even if I knew enough math to be hired under the work study program to tutor other students.

“How old are you?” and “Could I see what an Illinois driver license looks like?” He inquired. A savvy person would have known the second question was not really small talk. It must have been stupidity. I dutifully showed him my driver license. Satisfied, he engaged in large and small talks. He was relaxed and easy to talk to. I played a trick on him, a trick I learned from Marge. Marge worked at the community college I attended, in the center where I tutored. She took me under her wing and helped me adjust to life in the United States. She once told me to put on a sweater before going out. Her son thought that would offend me. He was embarrassed when she treated me like a little kid. Little did he know I liked being taken care of. Inside I was still a little girl. Marge taught me the trick of putting down the first four counting numbers on one side of a piece of paper, showing it to someone, and asking the person to pick one number without revealing it. After he chose a number, I flipped the piece of paper over. I had written on the other side “Why 3?” I had played this trick a few times and it never failed. It did not fail that day either. He was amazed. He thought I was magic. He didn’t tell me so at the time, but I read his diary much later. I assume I was magic because of the choosing-a-number trick, but I never really confirmed it. Sometimes it’s best to let our imagination run. Besides, he might have forgotten. To keep the magic alive, I don’t play the game anymore. There are always exceptions.

He gave me a Cracker Jack box. I spilled the content, thus earned the “clumsy” label from him. I concurred with the label to play along, but did not consider myself a clumsy person. It bothered me a little bit that he thought I was clumsy, even if he was just teasing.

Maybe we talked math. Maybe we talked about my boyfriend. Maybe we talked about my coming over to America. Maybe he asked for my driver license after my dumping the Cracker Jack content. Maybe it does not matter that I do not remember what we talked about or the order of events on the train. It must have been drunkenness. I was not the shy girl I really was. And I was glad he was with me. I had no idea what I’d have done for dinner. He took me to the dining car. As I followed him around a corner, I was somewhat self-conscious of our height difference. I ordered a prime rib. His treat. It was to be my Christmas present for Christmas was just a few days away. I normally liked fatty cuts of meat, but my prime rib was too fatty, I thought. Being diplomatic I was not, I let him know. He still remembers this.

We went back to the dome car after dinner. Now my memories have him sitting next to the window and me at the aisle, on the right side of the train. We must have spent the whole day together. He leaned back and closed his eyes. I thought he was forward when he told me to put my head on his shoulders. He must not have behaved his usual ways either because I don’t really think of him as a forward person. I wanted to be with him then, but I was not about to put my head on a stranger’s shoulders. I felt awkward and did not want to go to sleep next to him, with or without my head on his shoulders. As he fell asleep, I slunk back to my assigned seat.

We got back to each other the next day. At some point we were at the area of my assigned seat. The lady who sat next to me referred to him as my boyfriend. I tried to correct her to no avail. She offered her seat to him.

He gave me his address. It was not a time of cell phones, emails, or instant messages. To correspond, we’d have to write and send letters by putting stamps on envelopes. It was I who would have to write first if I wanted to maintain our friendship. I was about to transfer to a university and I did not have an address.

He was going to Tampa to spend Christmas with his maternal grandmother. I was going to Ocala to see my aunt and cousins. Our train split. I was the one who had to get off. As I was getting off, I gave him a hand squeeze. Touch is in my nature.

As I stood on the platform, he took a photo of me.

I stood and watched the train that carried him leave, craving for him to turn his head once more my way.

I was the one who wrote first. He said in his first letter that he’d be “honored” to be my boyfriend. It was flattering. But my then-boyfriend followed me to the university. And I was still self-conscious about our height difference. But my heart leapt whenever I got a letter from him. For Valentine’s Day, he sent me a stamped, unwrapped baseball. He wrote on it in pink letters “Be my valentine.” He put a 28-cent stamp on it and the post office delivered. I still have it.

It was several months before I parted with my then-boyfriend. It was not because of him. But my heart was free and open.

I finally gave him the “honor” he asked for.

Three years later, we tied the knots. He said our fate was sealed with the hand squeeze three years earlier. But perhaps our fate was sealed when I had to take the chemistry final at the end of the first half of my sophomore year. For you see, my cousin drove his roommate and my sister to Ocala to spend Christmas with his family. I wanted very badly to go with them, but I had to stay behind to take the chemistry final. If I had been a better student, I probably could have had taken the final early and be done with it.

And as fate had it, I was not a better student.