Crossing (2010)

by Andrew Xia Fukuda

  “From people who think they’re too good for her.”

  He reared his arm back.

  I turned to run.

  He was after me already.

  I made it to the hallway, the longest hallway in the world, and my boots—clamoring for grip, for distance—thudded halfway down its endless length when—

  Only one person in the world knows what happened next, and even then, I’m not entirely sure.

  What I do remember is tripping over my own boots. My fleeing body was already at the door twenty feet away, my whitened hands already reaching for the doorknob, my terrified mind already outside, already running into the sanctuary of the town police station, but my boots…

  …were still anchored in a terrible slowness, still plodding along the planks of the hallway. Then…they banged into each other, the heel of one boot clipping the tip of the other. And then I was falling. And then I was on the floor.

  My fall, so sudden and unexpected, surprised him.

  He tripped over me, his nimble feet catching on the back of my thigh.

  I remember glancing upwards, seeing a dark form sail over me like a rain cloud. It crashed with a thud a few feet away, shaking the boards. I thought I heard a wheezing sound, then the release of air like a balloon let go. He had impaled himself on the knife he was holding, right through the Adam’s apple.

  His arms and legs flopped as if trying to swim through the floor.

  Then he stopped moving altogether.

  I crouched down beside Jan, my fingers shaking. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. I reached for her hand. Freezing. There were bruises around her neck; pockmarks of purple and reddish lacerations marred her skin.

  I picked up a blanket from the floor and placed it over her shoulders. Her bangs lay plastered against her cheekbone from dried tears and blood. Gently, I brushed them back and tucked them behind her ear. For a second, her eyes opened partway at me through the stipple of bruises and welts. She had arresting green eyes, depth and soul. I’d known this since the very first time our eyes had met in the classroom so many weeks before.

  Then her eyes closed again.

  I carried her. I could not leave her there alone. So I took my jacket off, wrapped her in it, and somehow found the strength to lift her. Outside the snowfall had halted, and in that momentary reprieve, I trudged through the snow, through the woods, onto Route 19. I was tired and spent but never stopped. I carried Jan through the dark side of the Ashland dusk along empty roads and quiet streets:

  —over the bridge where by tradition high school graduates jumped off in their black gowns into the sun-dappled water sparkling below, yelling with all the delirium of sheer zest and exuberance, their whole lives spread before them with endless possibilities;

  —past the local park where Little League games were played in the summer, sunshine pouring down on uniforms bleached impossibly white, picnic mats laid out, beer cans guzzled, oversized women splayed on pool chairs like beached whales, Good eye, Billy, and Atta boy! being hooted;

  —by the corner where a convertible full of tank tops and bikinis and burnt red skin roared past a Chinese boy standing just feet away, making him gasp with wet shock as the car splashed water from the corner puddle onto him, high-fives and derisive giggles trailing along;

  —past the corner on that isolated road where a little Chinese boy had once stood dumbfounded, trying to find his daddy, as a dented car made its quick getaway;

  —down Main Street now, where in the summer young packs of teenage boys milled around groups of teenage girls, making fun of the little Chinese boy who walked past them, kicking him in the rump, laughing like hyenas;

  —and all the way to Fexter Street, where I turned left and walked into the fifth precinct.

  For a few seconds I went unnoticed. A uniformed officer at the front desk was busy chatting to what looked like a reporter. On my left, sleeping on the bench was a cameraman, his camera embraced in his arms like a teddy bear. I walked past the front desk, past the elevators on the left, past a Missing poster where the faces of Anthony Hasbourd, Winston Barnes, and Trey Logan stared out at me.

  I pushed through a set of doors marked Authorized Personnel Only and into a room filled with police officers. It didn’t take long after that. I heard the scraping of chairs, saw shock-faced officers standing up, wariness and caution all at once. I stood perfectly still, my arms heavy from carrying Jan.

  Snow on my clothes and boots flowed down in melted rivulets. I saw my reflection in the mirrored window behind the officers. I was wispy, ethereal, shivering in my sweatshirt, barely holding on to Jan, her arms dangling limp like willows.

  “What the hell is this?” an officer asked, his voice gruff with uncertainty and fear.

  I wavered a little on my feet. “We’ve been hurt,” I answered.

  PERFORMANCE

  What I remember most about that night are the headlights. I do not remember so well the frenzy that ensued at the police precinct, nor the statement I later made in a room full of detectives and sergeants. Only vaguely do I remember Jan being taken from my arms, carted away into an ambulance. There are hurried snippets of images that come to mind: the spill of reporters into the press room, the flashing of light bulbs, being taken away to another room, the mayor, who personally came down to congratulate me on finding the killer. The smell of garlic and wine on his breath as he spoke, his doting hand on my shoulder, pressing, asking if I was well enough to still perform at school: Think about the community, what’s best for the community. It would be best for the community for the show to go on. The mayor’s heated argument with a police sergeant. Cups of hot soup. Coffee. More questions about what happened. Then being driven to school.

  The headlights. Still so ripe in my memory. Sitting in the dressing room at school, alone at last, staring quietly out the window, at the approaching headlights. A stream of luminescent beads bobbling, like phosphorescent paper boats floating down a brook, journeying towards school. They were all coming to see me. Perhaps, I imagined, even Mr. Dan Foss, the owner of a deli downtown who had known me for years yet never addressed me by name like he did the other teens; or Mrs. Tina Shiva, my elementary school teacher who never once called on me to read aloud during the class read-a-thon; Mrs. Patrice Hudson, the town librarian who always eyed me with suspicion; Mr. Thomas Dooling, the owner of a small donut store who once tried speaking to me in a mimicry of Chinese, slapping his buddies when my face went blank and dumb. And many more, all of them now coming to see me. The auditorium lights would dim down, silencing the din of the audience, exposing a single, solitary spotlight pinpointed onto the stage. And then I would step into that beam, and they would be forced to watch me, for there would be nothing else to see; and they would be forced to listen to me, for there would be nothing else to hear; and they would be amazed, astounded, for there would be no other way to respond to my singing.

  When I was informed there were only five minutes to go, I exited the changing room. Just outside my room were all the extras and chorus members lined up against the corridor walls decked out in their costumes: prostitutes, tax collectors, shepherds, angels, kings, sheep. They’d been talking in hushed tones, but when I came out they stopped and stared. Word had already gotten around. The serial murderer had been found and killed; I had something to do with it. From behind their masks and dark hoods, they stared out at me. Then a hand stuck out towards me.

  “Hey, Kris, go get ’em,” said one of the three kings, whom I recognized as Dave Brady, captain of the lacrosse team, who’d never said a word to me before. It was a wonder he even knew my name.

  “Yeah, knock ’em dead, Kris,” said another voice, and another hand shot toward me. And with that, a chorus of voices spoke, encouraging me. More hands extended toward me to shake my hand or to slap me on the back or shoulder in support. It was all new to me. For the next ten seconds, I walked down the length of the hallway, shaking hands, nodding my head, grinning from ear to ear. I suddenly felt more alive than I eve
r had, as if my life were only now truly beginning. My skin, slightly clammy, prickled in the cool backstage air; my heart kicked with the prospect of new birth.

  I heard the audience begin to clap and, soon after, Mr. Marsworth start speaking. He spoke ingratiatingly, welcoming the dignitaries in the audience. The chorus, stagehands, and musicians moved as one, as quietly as possible, taking position backstage behind the thick velvet curtains. Marsworth droned on, speaking of the fire of suffering which helped to meld the town into a more united one. There was thunderous applause at that. Dripping with smarminess, he spoke of the teachers at the school, of their efforts at making this evening’s performance the pinnacle of what the town of Ashland was all about, namely excellence and perseverance in the face of adversity and evil. He punctuated his speech with exclamations that jangled the mike into shrieks of feedback, but he seemed oblivious. The audience was rapturous to give praise that night and responded heartily as he waxed eloquent. At long last, he ended his speech to deafening applause and stepped off the stage. The lights began to dim, submerging all of us backstage into darkness.

  I was suddenly terrified, realizing I’d made a gargantuan mistake. The audience out there was ravenous, an untamed beast, hungry to tear to shreds its prey. I never imagined that it could be so loud, so alive, squirming and writhing before me in the throes of its own heated passion. Singing to Mr. Matthewman in the safe confines of the music room was wholly different from what was before me here.

  The music began. I ducked back further backstage, behind some of the sheep. The curtains opened, and light poured onto the stage like water bursting from a dam. This was it then. The moment had arrived. And I was not ready; I was not prepared for this. The applause was rawer and more visceral than ever.

  The sheep in front of me bobbed up and down in eager excitement. I saw one of them lean over and whisper, “This is freaking awesome!” All the sheep nodded their heads in agreement. The shepherds walked onstage, taking their positions. There was a brief pause in the music; then the baton came down, the orchestra played, and the chorus of shepherds began to sing. The musical had, for better or for worse, begun. Not in a million years would I ever be ready for this. I was insane to think that I could ever pull it off. My frayed nerves turned my head into a frightened, swimming mush; my voice was stuck in quicksand a thousand miles away. I wanted to curl up and disappear.

  The first number ended. The audience clapped long and hard. The stagehands flew onto the stage, carrying off the well, moving in some trees and a placard board horse. The lights came on, and the sheep came waddling on, much to the cheers and amusement of the audience. It was an audience-friendly song, this one, and they ate up the easy rhythm and occasional bleating sounds coming from the sheep. Even in my frenzied state of mind, I knew that the show was going well—every number had been performed to perfection. Even Miss Jenkins was smiling approvingly backstage, her arms clasped around a clipboard in an amorous embrace.

  I watched as the sheep came offstage, high-fiving one another, smiling in a celebratory mood, the stagehands once again rushing out. My moment had arrived.

  The lights became muted, and I took my place at the side of the stage, refusing to look out at the audience. It had gone quiet; it had not been this silent the whole night. I saw the last stagehand put a large potted plant in the back and scamper off, head tucked down. Then I felt a slight nudge on my back, and Miss Jenkins’s voice whispered, “Now.”

  And so, at long last, the moment arrived. I walked out to center stage, hearing Miss Jenkins hissing out last orders. Then even her voice faded. Then it was just me standing in the middle of the stage, alone.

  Mr. Matthewman, conducting at the top of the orchestral pit, made eye contact with me; I closed my eyes. I wasn’t ready. For a few more seconds, I thought to myself, just a few more seconds, I can keep my eyes closed. I stood very still. Slowly I cracked open my eyes to the auditorium before me. All the world spilled towards me in a hazy gray. Their faces, indifferent and aloof all these years, now were ready to exult me, raise me up, paint me in colors of gallantry, a hero. But on their terms, always on their terms. I’d lived as nothing more than a canvas before them; upon me they would paint whatever they wanted to, whatever colors they chose, whatever imagery they imposed. They would see only the painting they brushed on this compliant, subservient canvas; their eyes would never delve past that thin veneer. But there was more to me than just a canvas. There were secret layers.

  I wanted to cry out to the world, “Stop!” For everything to rewind, to somehow be given a chance to go back. And what I would do is go back a week and practice singing on this stage every day. And what I would do is study more, attend church more, become a Christian, become even better at being a white Christian than Jason ever could. To never have kissed Jan Blair. And what I would do is journey back to the time I went to Chinatown with my father, and I would stay with him the whole time, never have deserted him, and we would have caught an earlier train home and completely avoided that skidding car. What I would do. What I would change. So many things.

  I opened my eyes to an unraveled world before me.

  Mr. Matthewman was looking at me with steady eyes. He raised his baton, paused, then let it fall. The music began. The spotlight splashed all over me. I never blinked.

  Alone onstage, I lifted my head up to the light and released my voice, not knowing what would come out. And what flowed out was a voice I’d never heard before: not the tilted croak of nervousness, nor the menagerie of beauty formed in Mr. Matthewman’s music room. This was something altogether different: passionately raw, wrenchingly incandescent. As I sang, I traveled to places I never wanted to go. Where a heart broke with the grief of unrequited love. Where hollowed-out eyes turned upwards to empty skies above. To the widest, most open expanse of a land of utter emptiness and loneliness. My voice rose up to the upper banners and spread from row to row, passing from person to person like a pale chiffon ribbon billowing across every cheek. A subtle caress.

  A baby who had been fussing in the back row stilled; Mr. Marsworth stopped chewing gum. I felt every eye fixated on me, including my mother’s, just a few rows from me, wet with the thought of possibilities lost, never to be retrieved. And I heard all of them, too, even as I sang. I heard them. Like so many years ago in that blackened ship, I heard their whispery voices, pleading in the darkness: “Autumn Moon on the Calm Lake.” “The Glow of the Setting Sun on the Lei Fong Pagoda.” “Orioles Singing in the Willows.” “Snow on the Broken Bridge.” “Evening Knell on the Nan Ping.” “Viewing Fish in Huagang.”

  Limber and supple, my voice swirled around the auditorium.

  O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;

  It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth!

  Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

  Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

  At the song’s close, my voice lilted past the fading echo of the stringed instruments. Then the auditorium was hushed over in pure silence.

  Then the sound of one person clapping. Then another, and another, until I could no longer distinguish between them. It was the roar of a waterfall. And I saw the audience rise as one, clapping louder than I’d thought possible in this auditorium, vociferous and manic. Cameras reawakened now, clicking madly, their flashbulbs blinding me. Mr. Matthewman, his face percolating with redemption, with release, nodded at me, his hand closed in a triumphant fist.

  And my mother. Almost lost in the audience, her face hovered like a surreal mirage, hands clasped together at her chin. Glowing with something like pride, feeling something like hope. For a brief moment, before she was swallowed up by the crowd, our eyes met. It seemed like the first time in years that we’d looked at each other. Really saw each other. There was tenderness, there was regret in her eyes.

  And that’s where I’ll stop. Whenever I remember this night, I always stop here. Standing on stage, my eyes filled to the brim, flashbulbs popping around me like strobe
lights, the clatter of incessant clapping ringing in my ears, and the feeling deep inside me that this was the zenith of my life, that nothing could ever, ever top this transcendent moment.

  MASK

  Years ago, when I was nine, my parents permitted me to go trick-or-treating without supervision. Certain prohibitions were placed on me, of course. Never was I to go into anyone’s home; never was I to sample any of the food or candy given to me, especially not apples; never was I to leave the immediate neighborhood; and never was I to separate from Naomi.

  It was all very technical, and soon forgotten. Naomi and I—both costumed in Casper the Friendly Ghost outfits (bought at Wal-Mart, two for the price of one)—ranged the streets, sucked on candy, ripped open chewing gum packs, stepped into strangers’ homes. It was never our conscious intent to break the rules, but once out in the streets, the parade of costumes, the beckoning lights, and the giggling masses of children swept us away as in a stream. Only the last instruction was never broken. We never strayed more than an arm’s length from each other the whole night.

  At some point we joined a group of other children. We didn’t know who they were; we all wore masks, spoke in the feigned, caricatured voices of our costumes. Nor did it seem important for us to know. We moved as one from house to house. Even at my young age, I sensed a rhythm, a cadence to all we did. Walk up to the door. Ring the doorbell. The door opens: a blustery woman, all made up with bright mascara and moussed hair, feigns surprise and glee at the sight of us. “Trick or Treat!” we shout in unison. The hands dipping into the bag, friendly admonishments to be careful, closing of the door, then moving on to the next house, to be repeated all over again, house after house.

  I remember it so clearly. The hollow, bellowing sound of my voice from behind the mask, the warm condensation collecting there. The two pinpricks on the mask through which I viewed the world, so blessedly small and obscuring. I remember the way they all looked at me as they asked who I was. Every time they asked, I’d intone the voice of Casper the Friendly Ghost, revealing nothing more. I’m Casper the Friendly Ghost! I’d see the response in their laughter, so free and unabashed. They never guessed it was a Chinese boy in a white costume.