by Patti Kim
The bell rings.
As the rest of the class runs inside, Asa tugs the back of my collar. He motions with the tilt of his head to follow him to the end of the line. When we get there, he puts his arm around me like I belong to him. He smells like dirty laundry. His breath streams out of his mouth into the cold air like smoke from a dragon. I wriggle out of his hold and say, “What do you want?”
The rejection takes him by surprise. His feelings are hurt. He struggles to talk. His frustration returns him to his normal self. He nudges me the way a piñata gets handled before the beating. The rest of the class is in the building, and I don’t want trouble from Asa or the teacher, so before he calls me Chingy-Chongy or burps in my face, I hurry to the doors and call out, “I got it. I’ll keep quiet.”
He catches up and says, “ ’Bout what?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“You the man,” he says, and pats my head.
As we walk through the hall to the classroom, Asa gives me the silent You’re so stupid laugh and covers his mouth with one hand and points a finger at me with the other. I sniffle and wipe my face. He sniffles and wipes his face, mocking me as usual, but this time he seems almost sorry and embarrassed about it. As we near the classroom, Asa limp-struts close by and hovers over me like a clinging shadow. He acts like his time is running out. He hunches down as if to confess, and with the unmoving lips of a ventriloquist, he whispers, “You smart, ain’t you?”
“I guess,” I say, shrugging.
“You good at reading,” he says.
“I guess,” I say.
“You good enough to teach?” he asks.
“I guess,” I say.
“ ’Cause I got this friend . . . ,” he says, limp-strutting into the classroom. He looks at me over his shoulder and smiles slyly.
twenty-nine
I agree to tutor Asa in reading and writing, and I draw up a contract, just to be safe.
Price: twenty dollars (50 percent down payment at the first lesson and the remaining balance to be collected at the final lesson, when literacy is achieved). Money-back guarantee.
Number of lessons: five (more or less, depending on the client’s commitment, discipline, and work ethic).
Location: Public library is ideal, but the client expresses concerns. He fears risk of exposure, so we agree to meet in the woods behind my father’s dream house. (The Shelter 365 would come in handy.) If weather conditions do not permit, the lesson will be held in the client’s home.
Materials: Client will provide all notebooks, paper, and pencils. Instructor will provide all learning materials in the form of flash cards, books, and work sheets.
We sign the contract on the dotted lines. Asa prints his name, the s shaped into a lightning bolt separating the two a’s. As soon as I put down my well-practiced John Hancock with the roller-coastered, loop-the-looped “Lee,” I recognize my father’s signature, which used to authorize and bear witness to all my excellent report cards. I used to practice his signature, tracing his lines and memorizing his curves, just in case I got a bad grade or he wasn’t around. I fold up the contract and put out my hand. Asa shakes it. A real business deal. Man-to-man.
thirty
I wait for Mickey on her couch. I need to learn the dance moves.
The dog, Charlie, sits at my feet and looks at me, sniffing the air between us. We get into a staring contest. Just as I’m about to blink, Charlie looks away. As I privately celebrate my victory, the dog jumps onto the couch and sniffs my ear. I freeze, hoping my imitation of a statue bores him enough to give up and go away. He sniffs more aggressively, as if my stillness is a challenge to smell me back into motion. I get scared. Knowing dogs get excited when they detect fear, I get even more scared. I stop breathing, just in case the dog smells fear on my breath. Please don’t lick me. Charlie licks me. His tongue, wet and warm, rubs across my face like a slow-motion slap of affection. I stand up, wiping my cheeks. He looks at me, wagging his tail, tilting his head, and panting. What’s the matter? We were having so much fun. I point at him with a trembling, unconvincing finger and feebly tell him to stop.
Charlie jumps off the couch, stands on his hind legs, and pushes me down. I fall in submission, roly-poly into a ball, and let the dog have his way with me.
“Let’s get down. It’s boogie time,” Mickey announces.
“Help,” I say.
“Dumb dog, get! Get off him,” she says.
Mickey grabs Charlie by the collar, drags him into a room, shuts the door, and shouts, “Benny, you best not be disturbing us while we rehearsing. I swear, you do and your face is getting rubbed in that litter box, and it ain’t been cleaned out in forever.”
Mickey sashays into the living room and twirls, exposing her underwear, except I think she’s wearing a one-piece bathing suit underneath her skirt, like the leotards dancers wear, which makes seeing it okay, I guess, because it isn’t really underwear. She stops in front of the Christmas tree, places her hands on her waist, swings her hips back and forth, and demands, “Bow down before my badness. How do I look?”
Her faded pink bathing suit is too tight. Her gauzy pink skirt looks like it’s made from an old lady’s nightgown. Her hair is huge, teased up even more than usual. Her eyes are shaded blizzard blue. Her cheeks are blushed in streaks of sunset orange. Her lips are smeared in scarlet red. Halloween comes to mind, but I say, “Fine.”
She twirls to the CD player and turns on “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. The music turns Mickey into a puppet, the song’s beat pulling and tugging at her. She knows how to dance. While she’s stayin’ alive, I’m stayin’ dead still. I don’t dance. I don’t know how. I sit down on the couch and say, “This isn’t going to work. We’re not going to win. This song’s too old. No one’s going to recognize it.”
“No one but all the teachers! And guess who is judging? Thanks to us, they going to have themselves a blast from the past. Now get up,” Mickey says, grabs me, and stands me up in front of her. She holds my limp hands and swings my arms, telling me to copy her feet. Step left. Bring feet together. Step right. Bring feet together. Left. Together. Right. Together.
“Keep going. That’s good. You’re gettin’ it. Move to the beat. Not like that! You’re way too stiff. Pretend you’re like liquid, all loose and relaxed. Come on, Ok. You gotta loosen up. Close your eyes. Listen to the music,” she says, sounding frustrated.
I close my eyes and step left-together-right-together, listening for the beat, pretending to be liquid, and trying to loosen up to the Bee Gees whining about life going nowhere.
I think I’m getting the hang of it, but Mickey says, “I don’t know. Something’s not right. This ain’t going to work.” She steps away from me like my lack of rhythm is a contagious disease, and stops the CD.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you deaf or something?” she asks, planting a fist on her hip. The red lipstick looks like blood. “This is serious, Ok. We ain’t got much time.”
“I told you. I can’t dance,” I say.
“Baloney. Everyone can dance. It’s natural. It’s like breathing. All of nature dances. You ever see birds flying or fish swimming or leaves blowing in the wind? That’s all dancing. You just gotta move and flow and let it happen to you,” she says, moving her arms like she’s conducting an orchestra.
“Actually, deaf people can dance. They may not hear the music, but they feel vibrations,” I say.
“Well, Bingo was his name-o. There you go. Feel the vibrations in the air,” she says, and looks into my eyes, threatening me with cat-litter facials.
Once upon a time, I saw my mother and father dancing in the living room. They danced the way old people dance, arms holding each other, cheek to cheek, swaying together, slowly spinning in circles, lost in the motion and the music. I think Elvis was crooning. I watched them for a minute, but soon my hands and feet got sweaty like I was about to get in trouble, so I left because I didn’t belong there, there was no
room for me, that was private and none of my business. I wonder if my mother dances with the deacon.
There is money to be won. There is a tent to be bought. There is an escape to be made. I must dance.
Mickey plays the song again and tells me to copy her. Follow the groove. Feel the vibrations. The room vibrates. The tree lights blink out of beat with the lighted wings of the angel on top. A cat jumps on the couch, sits on the middle cushion, and watches me point to the ceiling-floor-ceiling-floor, my arm swinging diagonally across my chest. The belt of a safety patrol uniform comes to mind. Just as I think I’m getting the hang of it, I see Mickey, lost in her enjoyment, and realize I’m far from dancing; I’m directing traffic.
Half of Benny’s face pops out from behind the kitchen wall. He watches my moves and cries out, “He’s a robot. He’s a robot.”
Mickey stops dancing and looks at Benny. She looks at me. She looks at Benny again. I want to tell him to run because she’s going to suffocate him in the litter box. She lunges toward him, squeezes his face, kisses him on the forehead, and says, “You, Benny-Boy, are my little genius.” She turns to me and proclaims, “Ok, you are going to dance the robot. You look like one. You probably smell like one. And no doubt about it, you dance like one.” She congratulates herself by popping her head like a robot and asks, “Think you can do it?”
Am I not the genius who first suggested I play a tree, statue, rock, or robot? Wasn’t she the one who rejected the idea? I let her take the credit and bask in the glory of her brilliance. What do I care? I’m relieved I don’t have to move like liquid. I hold my arms at ninety-degree angles, bow stiffly, pop my head up, and answer, “Affirmative.”
thirty-one
Thanks to the all-you-can-drink Cokes at Alario’s Pizzeria, I have to pee like crazy in the middle of the Christmas Eve service when Pastor Chung preaches about being thirsty for righteousness and seeking spiritual water found only in Jesus. I dash out of the sanctuary and head for the men’s room.
Passing an office with its door slightly ajar, I catch sight of the back of a familiar burgundy tweed sport jacket. I know that jacket because during dinner I noted how stupid it looks over the green shirt and red tie, Deacon Koh’s festive holiday attire. Full bladdered, I pause at the office door that should be shut and locked. I peek in because Deacon Koh stands with his back to the door and can’t see me seeing him.
He stands before a table covered with silver offering plates that overflow with envelopes, checks, and cash. The spoils of Christmas Eve. It’s the deacon’s job to count the offering money, but he’s alone tonight. No one counts the offering alone. It’s against church rules. I have to go before I wet my pants, but I see what I see: Deacon Koh slips bills into the left pocket of his burgundy tweed sport jacket. As if I’m the thief, I make a run for it.
thirty-two
With no faith in Santa and the promise of going to the d-CON’s house, I want to sleep through Christmas morning. Yes, d-CON, as in the mousetrap that kills the helpless, the unwanted.
When my mother tells me to wake up because he’s going to be here any minute to pick us up, I fake-cough, shiver, and say my stomach hurts. To check my temperature, she puts a hand on my cheek and presses her right eye on my forehead, a gesture that always makes me feel better even if I’m burning up with a fever. She holds her eye there, searching for heat, searching for the truth. “You’re not sick,” she says, and pulls the blanket off me.
“My stomach hurts,” I say.
“Santa brought you a present,” she says, pulling my arm.
My parents were never good at playing Santa. They wrapped my presents in Korean newspaper. They signed the cards in Korean. Santa was from the North Pole; he was not Korean. My father explained that Santa was of all races and knew all languages. I never bought it.
My mother drags me out of bed and to the living room, where there’s a box covered in laughing pink Santa faces. If I were giving a gift, I would never use wrapping paper that has my laughing face plastered all over it. I tear the paper off and open the box. Nestled in tissue paper are a pair of shiny brown shoes, the kind you wear to church and funerals. Under the shoes are a shirt, a tie, and a three-piece suit the same shade of burgundy as the d-CON’s jacket from last night.
“Oh! Look what Santa brought you! Look at those shoes! So shiny. Is that real leather? Look at that suit! How handsome! Grandfather Santa Claus was thinking about you this year. Hurry, go put them on,” she says.
“Now?”
“Now,” she says.
“Shouldn’t I save these for a special occasion?”
“Today is special! Hurry. Put your new clothes on. The deacon’s going to be here any minute,” she says, and pushes the gifts at me.
I get dressed. Everything is too big. Everything feels heavy and itchy. The clip-on tie keeps falling off the loose collar of the baggy shirt. The shoes are big too. I drag myself out to show my mother how foolish I look, but she hugs me, bursts out, “You look so handsome! You’re such a good son!” and cries.
“Ŏmma, don’t cry,” I say.
“Ok-ah, we suffered so much this year, but things are going to be better. I promise. You look so handsome. You’re all grown up. From now on everything’s going to be all right. I wish your father could’ve seen you like this,” she says.
Appa would’ve laughed at me in this suit. He never liked getting dressed up. As soon as church was done and we were walking out of the building, he’d be pulling off his tie, undoing his shirt buttons, and lighting a cigarette.
“God has been very good to us, Ok. So many people have been very good to us, especially the deacon. I hope you’re grateful. He cares about us. He takes you out to eat. He shows you how to be more spiritual. He teaches you how to swim. He really cares about you. I want you to think about him as more than a deacon from our church,” she says.
“But, Ŏmma,” I say.
“Think of him like he’s part of our family, Ok,” she says. “Like a father.”
“Ŏmma, my stomach hurts.”
“You’re fine. It’s all in your head,” she says, straightening my tie. “You’ll feel better. Let’s have the best Christmas ever.”
The best Christmas ever? Didn’t we already have our best Christmas ever when Appa was alive? “Okay,” I say, although this is not okay. I feel like throwing up.
“That’s my good son,” she says, patting my head. “You can meet the deacon’s dog. He’s a good dog. You’ll like him. He’ll follow you around everywhere.”
“Do we have to go? Can’t you just tell him we’re busy today? I have a present for you,” I say.
“You do?”
I go to my bed, reach underneath for the brown paper bag, bring it to her, and say, “Here. Merry Christmas.”
She looks inside, smiles, and pulls out the new bottle of Jergens lotion I bought her. This one is legal. I purchased it with my own money. My mother looks in the bag again, sees what’s at the bottom, looks up at me, and says, “Where did you get all this money?”
“I earned it doing some jobs at school. It should be more than enough to pay some of our bills,” I say.
Her mouth is smiling, but her eyes look sad, like they’re about to tear up. I want to tell her there’s more where that came from, and see, we don’t need the d-CON because I’m perfectly capable of taking care of us. I want her to say something that changes my mind about buying the Shelter 365 and running away. But she looks at me with pity and says, “The deacon will be here any minute.”
There’s a knock on the door.
thirty-three
Lassie is nothing like Mickey’s dog, Charlie, who knocks me down and licks me at every chance and paces on the couch from arm to arm before spreading himself across the cushions. The d-CON’s dog must’ve graduated at the top of his obedience class, because he obeys. When the d-CON commands him to sit, he sits. Stay. Roll. Turn in circles. Here. There. And all the commands are in Korean. I bet if the d-CON commanded him to attack me, he wo
uld.
While he and my mother are in the kitchen, I stand in front of the extra-large plastic Christmas tree, which is shrouded in gold tinsel and blinking with red lights. Because the ceiling is too low for the oversize tree, the angel on top is bent over like a hunchback and looming above me. In a silver ornament ball the size of a grapefruit I see Lassie’s reflection. He stands at the doorway like a security guard, making sure I’m not touching or pocketing any of his master’s treasures.
They turn down the volume of their laughter as they walk into the living room from the kitchen. My mother holds a tray of fruits, a cake, three cups, and a pitcher of red punch. The d-CON walks next to her, one hand holding a coffee mug and the other on my mother’s back.
He tells me to take a sit, make myself a home. I hate it when he speaks English to me. I sit down on a chair next to the window and notice a dead fly on the sill. I look out. A squirrel scurries down a tree. It’s in a panic, looking for the nuts it hid in the fall. I start to sweat underneath my new shirt, jacket, and tie, trying to figure out how I might go about making myself a home, my very own home.
They sit on the couch together. Lassie sits at the d-CON’s feet. It’s me on this side against them on that side. My mother takes a knife and taps an apple with its blade, making the first incision. As she peels the fruit, its red skin spirals off like a spool of ribbon. When I was younger, my mother peeling apples amazed me. She could pare them without breaking the long ribbon of skin. When she was done, I’d feel so proud of her and want to applaud and tell everyone, “Look what my mother can do.” I can’t seem to find that same pride right now.
The d-CON pours punch into a cup and sets it on the corner of the table, expecting me to come and fetch it like a good little dog. I stay put. My mother plates slices of apples and a piece of pound cake and sets it next to the glass of punch.