In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson

by Bette Bao Lord

  Dedication

  To my mother and father

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  January

  Chinese New Year

  February

  A Journey of Ten Thousand Miles

  March

  China’s Little Ambassador

  April

  A Hungry Ghost

  May

  Two Black Eyes and Wispy Whiskers

  June

  I Pledge a Lesson to the Frog

  July

  Toscanini Takes a Walk

  August

  Monsters

  September

  Secrets

  October

  The World Series

  November

  Moon Cakes Without Grandfather

  December

  A Star-Spangled Christmas

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  January

  Chinese New Year

  In the Year of the Dog, 4645, there lived halfway across the world from New York a girl called Sixth Cousin. Otherwise known as Bandit.

  One winter morning, a letter arrived at the House of Wong from her father, who had been traveling the four seas. On the stamp sat an ugly, bald bird. The paper was blue. When Mother read it, she smiled. But the words made Grandmother cry and Grandfather angry. No one gave Sixth Cousin even the smallest hint of why.

  It is so unfair, she thought. Must I drool like Chow Chow, eyeing each mouthful until someone is good and ready to toss a scrap my way? If Father was here, he’d tell. He would never treat me like a child, like a girl, like a nobody.

  Still, Bandit dared not ask. How many times had she been told that no proper member of an upright Confucian family ever questioned the conduct of elders? Or that children must wait until invited to speak? Countless times. Only the aged were considered wise. Even the opinion of her father, the youngest son of the Patriarch, did not matter. No wonder he had gone away to seek his fortune.

  She tried to pretend nothing had happened, but it was hard. All day, the elders behaved unnaturally in her presence. No unintended slights, quick nods, easy smiles, teasing remarks or harsh words. They were so kind, too kind. Bandit felt as if she had sprouted a second head, and they were all determined to ignore politely the unsightly growth.

  That evening, as she and Fourth Cousin sat on the bed playing pick-up-beans, she confided in her best friend. “Something’s happened. Something big has happened!”

  “Oh?” said the older girl. “You are always imagining things! Remember the time you told everyone there was a goldfish swimming in the bamboo trees? It was only a fallen kite. Remember the time you overheard the cook plotting to murder the washerwoman? He was only sharpening his cleaver to kill a hen.”

  Bandit scowled as she scattered the dried lima beans. “That was then. Now is now!”

  “All right, all right,” sighed her dearest friend. “What has happened now?”

  “That’s it. I don’t know,” she answered.

  “Well then, let’s play. My turn. Sixies.”

  “No!” shouted Bandit, grabbing the other girl’s hands. “Think! Think! What would make Mother smile, Grandmother cry and Grandfather angry?”

  Fourth Cousin shrugged her shoulders and began to unbraid her hair. She was always fussing with her hair.

  Bandit thought and thought, annoyed at her friend’s silence, sorry that no matter how Fourth Cousin tried, she would never be pretty.

  Soon the coals in the brazier were dying, and suddenly the room was cold. The cousins scrambled under the covers. The beans tumbled onto the floor. Bandit knew she should pick them up, but she just stayed put. She had thinking to do.

  Finally Bandit had the answer. Fourth Cousin was asleep.

  “Wake up! Wake up!”

  “Mmmmmmmmmm?”

  “Listen. I’ve got it. Remember the time the enemy planes bombed the city for two straight days and we had to hide in the caves with only hard-boiled eggs to eat? What happened when we came home?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Father brought us that pony of a dog. Mother thought it was cute and smiled. But Grandmother was frightened and cried and hid behind the moon gate. And Grandfather was very angry. He said, ‘Youngest Son, are you mad? Unless you mean for us to eat that beast, take him away. Take him away this minute.’ His voice was as cold as the northwest wind.” Bandit stood up and threaded her hands into her sleeves as Grandfather did. She cleared her throat the way he did whenever he was displeased, and stomped up and down the bed.

  Fourth Cousin never opened an eye. She turned on her side and curled up like a shrimp.

  Bandit pounced on her. “Don’t you see? Father is bringing the dog back.”

  “Never!”

  Bandit thought it over and sighed. “You’re right. You’re always right.” Quietly, very quietly, she slipped under the covers.

  Sleep still would not come. Bandit heard the sounds of laughter and voices, footfalls and bicycle bells, as guests departed from one court, then another. It was the season for merrymaking, when the New Year approaches and old debts are paid. At last the lanterns along the garden walk were snuffed out, and the room was dark. Bandit reached out. Fourth Cousin’s hand was warm.

  Through the wall came the faint strains of a song. Mother was playing Father’s record again.

  The music carried Bandit away, thousands of miles to the sea. Its waters were not muddy like the River of Golden Sands that churned at the bottom of the Mountain of Ten Thousand Steps on which the House of Wong was perched. The sea was calm; deep green like jade. As far as the heavens, the skies soared. In the distance, something blue. A boat in the shape of a bird. Slowly it floated toward shore. She shaded her eyes to get a better look. On the deck was Father. She shouted and waved, but he did not seem to hear.

  “Father! Father!” She shouted until she was hoarse. Then she ran into the sea, forgetting she could not swim. Soon he was just a fingertip away. “Father! Father!”

  Her cries angered the sleeping demons of the deep and they sent a wall of water to quiet the intruder. . . .

  Splash! She awoke. Her face was wet.

  “Look what you’ve made me do, you Bandit!”

  She sat up to find Fourth Cousin gone and Awaiting Marriage, the servant, sprawled on the floor. Beside the old woman was a shattered water urn. All about, the offending beans.

  Before Bandit could apologize, Awaiting Marriage screwed up her skinny face and wailed. The sight was ugly enough to frighten the devil himself. Cook was right. One hundred wedding trunks could not buy Awaiting Marriage even a hunchbacked, lame-footed husband.

  “Bandit, I’ve got you this time. This time you have to answer to your grandmother. I’m going to show her the pieces!” The servant stood up, shaking a fragment in Bandit’s face.

  Bandit brushed her hand away. “It’s nothing but crockery. No Ming urn!”

  Awaiting Marriage squeezed out a wicked smile. “Aha! You’ve forgotten it’s New Year’s time. Yes, Bandit, New Year’s time.” Giggling, the servant scurried out.

  Amitabha! Bandit was in trouble, deep trouble, Grandmother was the Matriarch of the House of Wong. What she ordered was always done. What she said was always so. How many times had she warned against breaking things during the holidays? It would bring bad luck, bad luck for the next three hundred and sixty-five days. And if anything made Grandmother unreasonable, it was bad luck.

  Quickly, Bandit got out of bed, used what was left in Fourth Cousin’s water urn to wash, dressed, plaited her hair and then began seriously
to clean the room. That was another of Grandmother’s dictums. Not a speck of dust. Not a misplaced article. Everything must be in harmony to welcome the New Year.

  As she was straightening out the shoes in the bottom of the tall rosewood bureau, Awaiting Marriage appeared at the door. She grinned as if greeting the matchmaker. “Young Mistress,” she said, gloating. “Young Mistress, the Matriarch wishes to see you in her quarters.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” With an extravagant bow, the tattletale removed herself.

  Bandit felt as if she had been summoned by an irate emperor. This time the punishment would be more than harsh words or three strokes of a bamboo cane. Much more. But she had to obey. No one ever disobeyed the Matriarch. Quickly she ran to the washstand and tucked a towel inside the seat of her pants. Still . . . there must be some way to soften Grandmother’s heart. She must think. And quickly, before another offense was added to the first. Think. Who could help?

  Yes, of course, naturally. Ninth Cousin, otherwise known as Precious Coins. He was the baby of the clan. The favored grandchild. Whenever Bandit needed a few pennies to buy melon seeds or candied plums, she sent Precious Coins to ask Grandmother for them. The Matriarch never refused him. If he would shed a bucket of tears for Bandit, perhaps her life would be spared.

  Where could that fat boy be? He hated to walk, loved being carried. With all the cousins getting ready for the festivities, he was probably still sitting on his bed like a buddha, waiting for a pair of feet.

  She ran out the door, along the gallery past Mother’s room, through the rock garden into the next court which belonged to Third Uncle. She tiptoed past his study. Uncle hated to be disturbed when he was doing accounts. And that’s all he ever did. She heard him muttering as he clicked the beads on his abacus, figuring out new ways to pocket a cent. Poor Third Aunt. No matter how she screamed and schemed, her husband refused to loosen his purse strings. Unlike Father he never squandered money for gifts. But he seldom reaped joy either.

  Precious Coins was sitting on his bed. As soon as Bandit stepped into his room, he held out his arms. She could not resist giving him a big hug. He was cute as a dumpling and just as round.

  “See Grandmother now?”

  “Yes. But no pennies today. When I set you down you must hold on to my leg. Don’t let go, no matter what. A new game, see?”

  “Hold leg. No let go.”

  “If you let go, you lose.”

  “No let go.” Precious Coins held up his arms again.

  Scooping him up, she walked slowly along the pathway past the lotus pond and crossed the half-moon bridge to the Matriarch’s quarters.

  At the threshold, Bandit hesitated. What took more courage—to enter or to run away? Inside sat all the women of the older generation, even Grand-grand-grand Auntie, who was ninety-three. It only proved Grandmother’s warning to be true. Bad luck. It was already here.

  “Granddaughter, you may come in.”

  Holding Precious Coins even tighter, Bandit inched toward the carved ebony chair in the center of the room. She kept her eyes on Grandmother’s bound feet, which rested on a stool.

  She set the boy down. At once he plopped to the floor and put his arms around her left leg.

  “Good morning, Grandmother,” she whispered, still keeping her eyes on Grandmother’s feet. They were very tiny, like little red peppers.

  “Look at me, child. I have something important to say.”

  One hundred lashes? Ten thousand characters to copy? One hundred thousand hours in her room? If only she had picked up the beans.

  Blinking away the tears, Bandit looked up. Her eyes met the Matriarch’s. No one spoke. Bandit looked around, searching for a friendly face among the women. No one smiled. Not even Mother.

  “Granddaughter, today is one of the saddest days in my long life, in all our lives. You, my sixth grandchild, must go away, far away. . . .”

  No! How can I? Bandit thought. I am too young. Who will take care of me? A tear fell, then another.

  “Grandmother,” she begged. “Let me have another chance. I will be careful. I will never, ever, as long as I live, break another thing during the holidays. I promise. Please don’t send me away.”

  “What are you talking about? I am not sending you away. You are going away because your father has sent for you and your mother. He has decided not to return to Chungking. He plans to make America his home. Your grandfather has agreed.”

  The letter! No wonder Mother had smiled, Grandmother had cried and Grandfather had been so angry. Oh, Father, she thought. At long last, we’ll be together again!

  Bandit could not help smiling. She was brimful of happiness. But then she saw the sadness on Grandmother’s face and ran to comfort her.

  Boom! Bandit fell. True to his word, Precious Coins had not let go of her leg.

  Then all the women of the House of Wong gathered around to fuss over her.

  “Oh, you poor thing!” they cried. “What’s to become of you?”

  “Exiled like a criminal to a distant land.”

  “With no clan to nurture you. Surrounded by strangers.”

  “Strangers who aren’t even Chinese.”

  “And those cowboys and Indians. What kind of place is that for a child to grow up in? Dodging bullets and arrows?”

  “You’ll starve! Imagine eating nothing but warm puppies and raw meat!”

  “How will you become civilized? America does not honor Confucius. America is foreign, so foreign.”

  On and on they went, wailing like paid mourners at a funeral. But Bandit was not afraid. She had faith in her father. Nothing awful will happen, she told herself. No bad luck. The Year of the Boar would bring travel, adventure and double happiness.

  The final day of the Year of the Dog lasted until dawn. No one slept. Not even Precious Coins. For tradition had long decreed that a bad dream on any New Year’s Eve was an omen of bad tomorrows. To make sure no one had a nightmare, all the beds in the House of Wong stood empty until the skies were lit by the dawn and the danger passed.

  The lofty Hall of Ancestors was festooned with holiday banners and graced with clansmen from near and far. They formed clusters of color like the glass pieces in a kaleidoscope. Everyone’s gown was of bright silk or brocade, and many were embroidered with gold and silver threads and lined in fur, or stitched with sequins and pearls.

  A few gowns, like Bandit’s, betrayed the twelve-course dinner the clansmen had consumed earlier. It did not matter. At the New Year’s feast no one ever scolded, even if a barbarian should wash his face in the soup. A few faces, like Bandit’s, could use a washing, even in soup. They were streaked with ash, for they had leaned too close to the sizzle of firecrackers. But even so, no cross words. On New Year’s Eve, exceptions were the rule.

  Gamblers seated at a dozen tables chatted and cheered as they vied at mah-jongg, cards and rhyming couplets, while would-be singing warriors and courtesans tagged after the tunes the musicians played and the servants, spinning like tops, circled the floor with drinks and delicacies. At each stop they collected a generous tip. Near daybreak of New Year’s Day, even Third Uncle forgot himself.

  Before the altar, which was laden with offerings for the ancestors, Grandfather sat, telling stories to the very old and the very young.

  Many in his audience were fighting sleep. Their stomachs were filled with sweets . . . their pockets with red envelopes containing money from the elders . . . their heads with stories of monkey kings and fox fairies, noble ministers and celestial fools, loyal sons, forgetful magpies, the weaving maid who lived on the far side of the River of Stars. No wonder they drooped.

  Not Bandit. She was wide awake, sitting cross-legged holding hands with Grand-grand Uncle and his wife of sixty years who, for as long as Bandit could recall, had refused to address her husband. Both the old artist and the former beauty had long forgotten his misdeed. The date of it, however, was enshrined in memory, and dubbed “Foul Friday.” Perhaps, in the beginning, t
he wife might have relented. Then it became unthinkable. Now, in his old age, Grand-grand Uncle delighted in painting Grand-grand Auntie’s portrait. Sometimes with warts. Sometimes with big feet or donkey grins. Always fanciful. Bandit thought each picture worth ten thousand laughs. Secretly she collected them, whispering to Grand-grand Auntie that she did so on her behalf. Thus, both artist and subject adored her. Thus, Bandit had become their official go-between.

  “. . . And so finally the worthy peasant could sleep peacefully in his grave.”

  Everyone applauded. Glancing up at the feuding husband and wife, Bandit saw tears in their eyes. If only, she thought, if only they could be friends again before I go away. Then they will not need a go-between. For the first time, Bandit felt a little bit sad to be going away.

  Grandfather tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair, calling for attention. Suddenly, the Hall was still.

  “It is almost time to go to bed, my clansmen. But before we can, there is something we must do. Sixth Cousin, rise and come to my side.”

  Bandit jumped to her feet and obeyed. Grandfather was the Patriarch of the clan, even more powerful than Grandmother. Everyone was now looking her way. Bandit blushed.

  “Now, now, my child,” Grandfather said with a smile, “since when have you become so shy?”

  Everyone laughed, the cousins the loudest.

  Tapping his pipe again, Grandfather continued. “As you know, my youngest son’s wife and daughter will be leaving us this week. There will still be time enough to say a proper good-bye. But we must not send Sixth Cousin away without giving her an official name. Bandit will not do, will it?”

  “No!” shouted the House of Wong.

  “So, tell me my child, do you have a preference?”

  “I, Grandfather?”

  “Who else?”

  Bandit looked to the rafters, as if a hint might be hidden there. Everyone waited quietly. Finally she replied, “Grandfather, since I am going to America, I would like an American name.”

  Some nodded approval. Others shook their heads. An American name!

  Grandfather stroked his white beard. Then he said, “American name it is.”