by Henry Chang
He turned back to Pa’s patch of ground, placing his potted bushes gently into the snow on either side of Pa’s headstone. The dusty gray leaves with tiny white flowers accented the stone nicely. Touching his fingers to the Chinese words carved into the face of the stone, he searched his mind for good memories but could only recall that Pa had been a hardworking man, loyal to his friends.
He torched the incense and planted the thin sticks.
He bowed three times.
Wordlessly, he pulled the flask from his jacket and uncapped it. He poured out a thin stream of mao tai liquor that melted a line in the snow. Then he took a swig himself before resuming the final good-bye he hadn’t had the chance to say in life.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said quietly. “Hope you find some happiness up there.”
He emptied the flask and backed away from the headstone. Bowing again, he took a pack of firecrackers from his pocket, holding it while the sadness in his heart brought the tears to his eyes. He fired up his lighter, and slowly brought the flame to the skinny silver fuse.
The staccato bursts of the firecrackers were hammered by the boom of cherry bombs and the clanging of ash-can charges as the New Year’s crowds flooded into Chinatown.
The Year of the Pig had swept in on the icy wings of the hawk, and settled onto a left-over foot of snow and slush. Clouds of gray-blue smoke floated up from the fireworks as the masses tamped down the littered carpet of red particles that covered the winding snowy streets.
Jack smelled the stinging bite of sulfur and ash, tasted the gun powder in the cold air as lion dancers in colorful costumes leaped at the blazing explosions. They were inspired by the clash of gongs and cymbals, teasing the thundering war beat out of the big wooden drums, driving out the evil spirits that plagued Chinatowns everywhere.
The explosions blasted through the smoky air, spurring on the energetic lion dancers who were stomping through the snow to the pounding rhythm of the large drums. The plaintive gongs and raucous cymbals urged the crowds on, provoking another rain of fireworks.
The lion heads appeared to be breathing fire, bright white flashes of light beneath the brilliant gold, green, and red decorations that brightened the neighborhood. He saw images of golden pigs in all the shop windows.
Outside the Tofu King, Alexandra, wearing a quilted red meen nop jacket, stood beside Jack, soaking in the joyous outpouring as Mott Street filled with people and became impassable.
The kung-fu clubs performed all around them, twisting and thrusting the multicolored lion heads at the red envelopes offered by the shop owners.
Billy Bow, using a fat cigar for ignition, launched a mat of firecrackers into the street.
A long golden dragon, held high on poles, wound its serpentine way past them, followed by a pair of lunging silver unicorns.
Everywhere, a sea of bright red.
Twenty-foot strands of firecrackers, strung from fire escapes above, blazed to a thunderous end, inciting the crowds below to cheers and applause.
The New Year was a celebration of family bonds and a chance to embrace new beginnings. Wrap up loose ends, settle debts, clean the house, sweep out the dust, buy some new clothes.
The Pig was the twelfth sign, the last sign in the lunar cycle, the purest in heart and most generous of the animals. The Pig was loyal, chivalrous, and believed in miracles. The year was characterized by honesty, fortitude, and courage.
In Columbus Park, volunteers had shoveled back the snow, and the flower vendors pitched their colorful bouquets under the huge tent of the Lunar New Year flowers market.
The benevolent associations sponsored Chinese acrobats, and produced martial-arts demonstrations in their assembly halls. Because of the snow, there would be a shortened Lantern Parade accompanied by the Chinese School Marching Band.
The On Yee Association bankrolled a Cantonese Opera troupe’s performance at the Sun Sang theater, trumpeting a community alive with celebrations of tradition, culture, and family.
The NYPD had fenced off the main streets with metal barriers, and blocked out strategic areas for police vehicles. Crowd-control duties provided overtime cash for the uniforms, most of whom stuffed cotton wads into their ears, crinkled their noses, and held their breaths in the acrid smoke.
This celebration, this new Pig Year was foreign to them.
Jack spotted Jeff Lee in a crowd across the way on Pell, tossing firecrackers at a pair of bowing lion heads. Knowing that it was the monkey, Eddie Ng¸ who’d ripped off Jeff’s office on Pike, weighed on Jack’s mind.
Seeing Jeff reminded Jack that slick short Eddie was still at large. Jack had sent out bulletins to the various law enforcement agencies and was hopeful the ma lo hadn’t fled the country yet.
Jack tilted his face up to the blue sky and felt the warmth of the winter sun. Around him, the crowd roared again as more fireworks exploded, and Alexandra clutched his arm tightly against her body.
Sooner or later, he knew, Little Eddie’s trail would turn up.
Until then, the January sun felt good, and Alex was a comfort to him, making the possibilities of the new year seem open to fortitude, courage, and good fortune. . . .