by Patti Kim
“Ok-ah, here. Have some. Take your food,” she says.
I don’t move.
“I know he’s hungry. He’s always hungry. Isn’t he being funny,” she says, and bites into an apple slice.
I’m always hungry? What’s that supposed to mean? And why is she talking about me like I’m not in the room? Am I shrinking? Am I disappearing? Is this monstrous three-piece suit swallowing me whole?
The d-CON stands up, goes to his fancy stereo, and plays a CD. It’s Handel’s Messiah.
My mother stands, picks up my plate of food, puts it on my lap, and places her hand on my forehead. Her hand feels warm and damp with apple juice. “He doesn’t have a fever,” she says, and walks away. I want to shrink down to the size of a safety pin, lie down on the slice of yellow pound cake, and sleep. Keeping the plate balanced on my knees, I watch the edges of the apple slices begin to brown.
The d-CON replaces my plate of food with a present, which is wrapped in the same laughing Santa paper the clothes and shoes came in. I slowly tear the paper. It’s the Holy Bible bound in black leather, its onion-thin pages edged in gold. There are two ribbon bookmarkers attached on top, one for each testament, new and old.
The choir is singing, “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given . . .”
“That’s too much. It looks so expensive. He loves books. Is that real gold? What do you say, Ok?” my mother says.
“Thank you,” I manage, hoping he won’t say “No problemo,” because if he does, I’m going to throw the Bible at him.
“No problemo,” he says.
The choir sings, the different parts echoing one another about the birth of a child.
“Oh no, I don’t think he prepared a gift for you,” my mother says.
“No problemo. I have everything I want right here. Children aren’t supposed to give presents to their parents. Besides, it’s far better to give than to receive. I’m not done yet. I have more to give. I have a very big and important gift to give this wonderful Christmas morning. I am giving you and your mother the gift of family. We will be a family. I’ve already asked your mother to marry me, and she happily agreed,” he says.
With the choir singing about the government being upon his shoulder, my mother takes out a ring from her pocket and slides it onto her finger. She must have received the engagement ring during their own time together, in private, behind my back.
The choir sings, “Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace . . .”
What I would give to see Appa barge in on this, wearing his clunky construction boots, with a bottle of Johnnie Walker in one tarred hand and a cigarette in the other, and kick the d-CON to the moon.
I’m the last to know. Judging from the way Lassie sits there, wagging his tail and glowing red among the tree lights, I suspect the dog is even in on it. He looks at me. The tilt of his head seems to say, Oh, you had no idea? Are you really as dumb as you look? What’s wrong with you? For your information, I’m in. You’re out. Mung. Mung.
thirty-four
Asa’s apartment is packed with people. He tells me to wait. I stand near the door and watch him hopscotch over bodies on the floor and dodge the ones moving about. The Christmas tree is heavy with ornaments and blinks in red, white, and blue lights. On the door hangs a wreath made of red and green tissue paper. The TV is on loud. There’s talk and laughter coming from the kitchen. I smell food cooking. An old man sitting near me says to another old man, “I’m walking and talking, ain’t I? As long as I’m walking and talking, I ain’t gotta worry about the little stuff.”
A little girl with pine needles and crayons stuck in her hair comes up to me and stares. Her hair is a mess. A little version of Mickey McD. My fingers twiddle because two French braids would tidy her up in no time. She says, “What you got in yo’ bag?”
I shrug.
“You got presents?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“You got candy?”
I shake my head again.
“You Asa’s friend?” she asks.
I shrug.
“You Chinese?”
I shake my head.
“Then where you come from?”
I shrug.
“You deaf or something? Why ain’t you talk?”
“Why ain’t you shut up?” I say.
As soon as I speak the words, I want to take them back. The girl’s eyes well up with tears. Her lower lip quivers. A pine needle falls out of her hair. She is on the verge of wailing. I quickly open my backpack, pull out a candy cane, wave it like a magic wand in front of her face, and say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. Look. It’s candy.”
She takes my candy cane, puts it in her mouth, and sucks on it, plastic wrapping and all. When Asa comes back, she leans into him, hugs his leg, and tells him I made her cry.
“Why you mess with my fave baby coz like that?” Asa says, nudging my shoulder. He doesn’t mean it. I can tell it’s for show.
I make a sad face, pretending to cry. I knock the side of my head with my fist and say, “I’m so stupid, stupid, stupid.”
The girl laughs. Asa kneels down, hugs her, then steers his cousin back to her spot on the floor with the rest of the children.
As I follow Asa up the stairs to the top floor of the apartment building, I envy him, wishing for a crowd of family members in my home. I sit on the top step. He sits one step below me. Our voices echo, so we talk quietly. I look down at him and almost don’t recognize the Asa Banks I know from school. He looks calm and open, not so tough, have-to-be-cool, and angry. I want to tap his head with my pencil, toss him some candy, punch his arm, and tell him my father died, my mother is marrying a thief, my life is in jeopardy, I myself am a shoplifter, and I’m going to run away and live in a tent, but instead I say, “Where’s the money?”
He unties his right Nike sneaker, takes it off, stands up, and dumps bills and coins out of his shoe and onto my head. As I pick up the damp dollar bills and warm coins and count them, his laughter echoes in the stairwell.
“Man, you taking all my Christmas bread. Chill, it’s all there,” he says.
I stuff the cash into my pocket. I’m getting closer to the Shelter 365 and financing my great escape. At this earning rate, I may be able to ditch the talent show, but I’m going to need all the cash I can get my hands on, living on my own. I sit back down, take out a pencil and notebook from my backpack, and tell Asa to say the alphabet. He makes it to L-M-N-O, gets mixed up, starts over, gets mixed up at the same letters, and says, “Wait. I gotta sing it.” He makes it to Z, but he sings so terribly I laugh.
“What you laughing at?” he says.
“Your singing,” I say, trying to stop laughing.
He punches me in the arm.
“Your singing sucks,” I say.
“Your mama sucks,” he says.
I stop laughing, open the notebook, and say, “You are probably right about that. Can you identify this letter?” I point at M.
Asa knows all the letters, but he has a hard time writing them. He quickly gets the hang of sounding out short words like “cat,” “rat,” “sat,” “mat,” “cap,” “sap,” “lap,” “mop,” “top,” “cop,” “stop.” . . . What he needs is practice.
“It’s not as bad as I thought. You’re not completely illiterate. You have a good base knowledge of the sounds the letters make. But you’re way behind for your age. The only way to catch up is to read all the time, read whatever’s in front of you. Not just books, but signs, cereal boxes, newspapers, posters . . . Sound out the letters, figure out the word, copy it down, whatever it takes. Start with the little-kid books and work your way to the harder stuff. Soon you won’t even need to sound out the easy words because you’ll know them just like that. You’re smart. You’re fast. You’ll get it. You just need to practice,” I say, and glance at him. Asa reminds me of a little kid as he sits one step down with his shoulders hunched over, looking up at me with
a faint smile.
“Why you say your mama suck?” he asks.
“ ’Cause she does.”
“That’s cold.”
“I don’t care. Here, I got you a book. I want this read from cover to cover for the next lesson. Michael Jordan was checked out, so I got you Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Do you know Kareem?”
“Do I know Kareem?” He says it like he’s Kareem’s mother.
“I’ll bet I know more about him than you,” I say.
“I seen you play,” he says, and covers his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh.
“What was his name before he changed it to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar?” I ask.
Asa closes his eyes and says, “Oh, I know this. Don’t tell me. Wait. It was, like . . . John something.”
“Ferdinand Lewis Alcindor Jr.,” I say.
He bursts out laughing. “His name was what? Ferdinand? That’s a shameful name. That’s worse than, like, Seymour or Norman or Oak Lee. Ain’t you glad yo’ mama ain’t call you Ug? Then you be called Ug Lee,” he says, slaps his knee, and laughs.
“Ain’t you glad yo’ mama could spell? Otherwise yo’ name be like Ass,” I say.
“Who you calling Ass?” Asa says.
“I’m calling you Ass ’cause you look like one, smell like one, and God knows you read and write like one.”
Asa stands. He looms over me. He holds my head, his hands over my ears, and jostles it back and forth in his palms like he’s handling a basketball before going for a free throw.
I push the top of my head into his stomach, and we tumble down the stairs. My backpack spills. Asa grabs my jacket and rips open a small tear on my sleeve. He grabs a handful of white stuffing and shoves it in my mouth. I bite his finger, grab his shirt, and stretch it over his face. He looks like Spider-Man. He punches me in the stomach. I cough and punch him back. We roll to the edge of the next series of steps, and I start to fall off. I think Asa will shove me down, but he pulls me away to safety. We tumble around some more, no longer really hitting each other, holding and rolling disguised as fighting.
A door to an apartment on the top floor opens. We freeze. A woman steps out and tells us to take it outside because the stairwell is no playground and what’s wrong with you kids these days. “Is that you, Asa Banks? Where is your mother? Do I need to talk to your mother again?”
“No, ma’am,” he says, standing up. “We apologize.” He straightens his shirt, which is all stretched out. It looks like he’s wearing a dress. I spit pieces of stuffing out of my mouth.
“Apology accepted,” she says. Her tone changes. “Did you have a blessed Christmas, Asa?”
“Yes, I did. And you?” he says.
“It was fine. I got my grandkids here. They are a handful. The boy reminds me of you, Asa. You come up and play with him sometime, you hear?” she says.
“I will. Happy New Year, Mrs. Dorsey,” he says.
“Be good now,” she says, returns to her apartment, and shuts the door.
I pack up my bag. As I hand Asa the book about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, I say, “Here, read it. And don’t lose it. It’s a library book.”
He inspects the cover. “You know, just ’cause I’m a bro and play ball, you think all I’m interested in is black basketball players? Man. That’s wrong,” he says, shaking his head and looking down like he’s wounded.
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Did it even cross your little mind that maybe I wanna learn about some prominent historical figures, someone like Helen Keller? Did you ever think about that?” he says.
“Helen Keller?”
“Yeah, Helen Keller. That woman be deaf and blind and dumb. She can’t see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. And she still made something of herself. I know who she is, don’t I? I know her name, don’t I? Unless you’re one ignorant son of a b, everybody know her name. That’s crazy,” he says, shaking the book in his hand. I can’t tell if he’s going to throw it at me or whack me in the head with it.
“Sorry. My bad,” I say.
“I wish I had a mirror. You should see yourself. You look sorry like you shot your own mama. You going to cry? I ain’t going to beat you up. You can’t read my mind. You got no idea. You ain’t that smart,” he says.
“Kareem goes back?”
“Nah. It’s all right. Me and Ferdinand, we going to get tight this week,” he says, and pats the book.
“How about the library next time?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says.
“You can pick your own books,” I say.
“Nah,” he says.
“Why not?”
“I got a reputation. Can’t be seen with you. Can’t be seen in no library.”
“Well, I got a reputation too. I can’t be seen with you,” I say.
“Yeah, you got a reputation, all right. You Old McD’s boy. She your girl?” he says, chuckling.
“No,” I say.
“Look at you, Oak. Turning all red. That girl is weird,” he says.
“You can be the biggest moron,” I say.
“That’s it? That’s it? I just rip on your girl, and you ain’t gonna lay moron me? Get it?” he says, and punches my arm.
“I get it, butt-face.”
“There you go. You’re okay,” he says, chuckling. He gives me his open palm. I’ve seen him and his friends do this kind of handshake, but it’s not a shake, it’s more of a quick brush.
I brush my palm against his and ask, “Then how about the woods behind that old house?”
“You mean that creepy house? I heard a man shot up his family, then hanged himself in that basement and he be haunting the joint ever since,” he says.
“Chicken?” I say.
“Me? No way. That’s my dinner you talking about,” Asa says, and gives me a friendly shove as he runs downstairs to his home of the four Fs: family, freedom, future, and food.
thirty-five
To excuse myself from church, I tell my mother I have two quizzes and a big history project due the next day. She doesn’t challenge me. Lying to her about being sick would work just as well because she is in too much of a hurry getting pretty for the d-CON to check my forehead with her eye, which is caked with mascara, outlined in black liner, and shimmering with blue eye shadow. She leaves early because they’re planning on eating breakfast at IHOP.
I borrow our neighbors’ Sunday paper, looking for after-Christmas sales on camping equipment, namely the Shelter 365. I intend to return the newspaper. I’m merely borrowing it. They’re probably still asleep. It’s harmless. I am no d-CON.
The phone rings.
“I am bored out of my mind. What you up to?” Mickey says.
“Studying,” I say.
“Boring, Goody-Goody-Two-Shoes. Why you always studying?”
“Because I want to get good grades, get into a good college, get a good job, get lots of money, get a good wife, get good children, be a success in the USA,” I say, sounding like a robot.
“You don’t need college to make money or get married or get babies. College takes too long. You know what you should do? You should open up a hair salon. You’d make a killing. I bet you could make millions just like that. You could be a millionaire. Guess what I’m doing right now?”
“You’re on the toilet.”
“No! Could you be more crassy? Guess again.”
“You’re putting on makeup,” I say, turning the page.
“How’d you know? Ok, you know me too good. It’s kind of scary,” she says.
Safeway is having a sale on apple pies. Buy one, get one free.
“If you need to know what I’m doing at this very moment, I’m painting my toenails. My nail polish is all goopy and dried up, so I’m using Magic Marker,” she says.
Peoples is having a sale on Utz potato chips. Buy one, get one free. My stomach grumbles. Giant is having a sale on Aunt Jemima pancake mix and syrup. I imagine a tall tower of pancakes between my mother and the d-CON, so tall it blocks their views of each other. T
he syrup oozes, mixing with the melted butter and coating the top pancake. It slowly drips down the sides. My mouth waters.
“Wanna skate?”
“No.”
“Wanna go to that haunted house?”
“What haunted house?”
“The one you keep talking about.”
“No.”
Sears is having a sale on camping equipment: 25 percent off. The Shelter 365 is pictured in the advertisement. While supplies last. Even with the markdown I don’t have enough money. I’m about ten dollars short. While supplies last.
“Wanna come over? My mama’s here, but she’s sleeping, and she going to be out cold until Timbuktu ’cause she worked the night shift and she going to be working it again tonight. She says it pays better. And my daddy, he ain’t here. Not yet. He says he’s coming for the talent show. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. He says he’s going to be staying a whole week. I miss him so much. I can’t wait. And Benny’s here sitting in his underwear with a jar of peanut butter, watching a preacher on TV. He’s smearing it on his arms and knees and licking it off. It’s disgusting. Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, now he’s putting it on his toes, and Charlie’s licking it off. Wanna come over?”
While. Supplies. Last.
“I’ll cook you pancakes. My daddy says I cook the best pancakes,” she says.
“Fine.”
thirty-six
While Mickey cooks pancakes in the kitchen, while her mother sleeps, while Kelly watches for birds out the window, while Sabrina paces on the radiator, while Jill paws the pine needles off the Christmas tree, while Charlie waits for more peanut butter, while Benny, curled up on the recliner, sucks his peanut-buttered thumb, while the preacher on TV squishes his eyes together and prays, “Oh Lord, take me as I am,” I sit on the couch within arm’s reach of the sleeping mother’s purse. It gapes like the mouth of a shark, the teeth of the zipper lining the opening, and it’s full, full with a brush growing its own head of hair, a can of Aqua Net, wrinkled-up Mr. Goodbar wrappers, a pair of sunglasses, keys, a pack of Camels, a red lighter, and a wallet too fat to close, with a ten-dollar bill trying to get out.