In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson

by Bette Bao Lord

  Now everyone nodded approval.

  Bandit clapped. Fourth Cousin did too. My dearest friend, Bandit thought. I wish you were going with us. Again, she felt sad.

  “Any suggestions, my child?” Grandfather asked.

  She had not been prepared for that! Everyone knew she did not speak English, but if she admitted it now everyone would enjoy a big laugh just the same. She looked at the rafters again. I must know an American name, she thought. I must.

  Suddenly one came to her.

  “How about Uncle Sam?” she shouted.

  All laughed until some cried.

  Bandit felt that her face was as red as a fried lobster.

  Grandfather came to her rescue. “I, myself, do not care for the sound of it. How about something more melodious?”

  Think! She must know another American name. Then it came to her. Yes, that was it. Everyone loved her movies. She was just about the most famous movie star in all the world.

  “Shirley Temple!”

  For a minute no one moved. Then Grandfather applauded. Then so did everyone else.

  Grandfather tapped his pipe once more, calling the clansmen to order. Straightening his back, he pronounced the official words. “I, as Patriarch, do hereby advise my clansmen that my sixth grandchild, the thirty-third member of the House of Wong now living under the ancestral roofs, and one of the thirty-ninth generation registered in the Clan Book, will now be known as Shirley Temple Wong.”

  February

  A Journey of Ten Thousand Miles

  The sea was not calm, nor deep green like jade. It writhed like a fierce, black dragon with chili peppers up its snout. And Shirley never saw the skies. She lingered in her bunk throughout the month-long journey to San Francisco, with no appetite for food, much less adventure.

  Mother, though, never faltered. As giant waves sent slippers, suitcases, tables and the chair she sat in slithering to and fro across the floor, she knit on, unperturbed. If she did cry out, it was not because she had crashed into the wall but because she had dropped a stitch.

  Father had always claimed that his wife was like no other. It was true. Mother was unique. Everyday things like the tiniest cockroach or a gentle tap on the back made her shriek. Extraordinary things did not alarm her. Shirley knew better than to ask Mother to remove a splinter. Even a droplet of blood made her cringe. Yet when Precious Coins was about to be born and the hospital miles away with bombs falling like hailstones, it was Mother alone who soothed the frantic household and quietly delivered the baby. And now . . . now she who had never dared go even to the nearest market without a companion had taken charge of their journey of ten thousand miles.

  At last the ocean ended, and the ship hiccupped to a halt at the harbor. Amitabha! The queasiness was gone. Shirley felt like Shirley again, not like a sick toad.

  “Hurry!” Mother said, taking her by the hand. “We must not miss the train.”

  Shirley could hardly keep up with her as she snaked her way through the crowd of travelers. At every stop, whether immigration or customs, she alone gave the magic password, for not once did they have to fill out extra forms, not once were their bags opened. All the inspectors seemed bewitched by the lovely, slim Chinese woman who was in such a hurry.

  Outside, there was a torrential rain. Somehow Mother found a taxi and it delivered them to the station not a minute too soon.

  Only when they were safe in their compartment, when nothing serious could go wrong, did Mother fret. “What if your father is not there to meet us?”

  “But you wrote.”

  “What if the letter was lost?”

  “You sent three.”

  “I did?”

  “You told me so yourself.”

  “What if I made a mistake in the address?”

  “You couldn’t have. Not on all three.”

  The what-ifs continued, and Shirley tried not to smile. It was so like Mother to tame a den of tigers and then jump at the sound of a kitten’s meow.

  Throughout the journey across the United States, Shirley stared out the window of the train. But she remembered nothing of what she saw. Her thoughts were always with Father. Father, who knew how everything worked. Was he not an engineer with a diploma from Shanghai to prove it? Had he not explained why the stars twinkled and how submarines slunk beneath the seas? When she asked why people must die, he had said, “Because we must make room and give others a turn to live.” And he could fix anything. Lamps that refused to light. Doors that squeaked. Even quarrels, except for the one between Grand-grand Aunt and Grand-grand Uncle.

  How she missed him!

  As the wheels of the train clacked along the tracks, they seemed to chant—Four more days, just four more days. . . . Three days, just three days. . . . Only two, only two, only two. . . . Tomorrow, tomorrow. . . . Today!

  At last it was the hour when their year-long separation would end. Shirley clutched her seat, afraid joy would launch her through the ceiling and whisk her high above the clouds. She fixed her gaze on Mother, who twisted her handkerchief nervously, smiling at someone who was not yet there.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Better wait till the train has come to a stop. You wouldn’t want to fall and skin a knee just before you see Father.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “We will be there soon enough.”

  “Now?”

  “The train is slowing down. Soon.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Hand in hand they made their way down the crowded aisle toward the exit, peering out the windows at the people waiting on the platform.

  “There he is!” Mother whispered.

  “Where?”

  “By the far pillar.”

  “I see him. Father! Father!”

  Shirley freed herself and burrowed through the passengers to the door. Leaping off the train, she ran to the dapper man in a bow tie.

  He lifted her into his arms and swung her about, hugging her tightly. “What disgraceful behavior!” he exclaimed in a mocking tone so familiar that it made her teary. “Has your mother taught you no shame—embracing in public? Who are you anyway?”

  “Father, it’s me. Shirley. Shirley Temple Wong.”

  He shook with laughter. “Shirley? Where did you get such a name?”

  She started to explain, but suddenly he was still. He set her down. Before them stood Mother. Her face looked so solemn. His did too. Something was happening. Mother did not blink when a man smashed a bottle nearby. Father did not react when another jostled him. For a long moment, Mother and Father simply glowed, as if they were caught in a spell.

  Father bowed. “It is good that you are here, my wife.”

  “It is good to be here, my husband.” Mother, too, bowed.

  Taking one of Father’s hands in her left and one of Mother’s in her right, Shirley jumped up and down. “Take us home, Father. Take us home.”

  Home was Brooklyn, New York, but Shirley would not know that for a while. To her, it was simply Mei Guo, Beautiful Country.

  In the taxi her parents talked in whispers while Shirley ogled the tall buildings. But no matter how she scrunched, she could not see if their roofs curved skyward like the temples of China or were topped with straw like the homes of peasants. Now and then she waved, even though the streets, as wide and as straight as the airstrip in Chungking, were empty. Where were the bicycles and rickshaws, the mules and the carts? How did people market? There were no peddlers or farmers’ stalls. But strangest of all, where were all the people? In Chungking, there were always people. Surely somebody lived in those tall buildings. Surely. Shirley could not know that it was Sunday, a day when everyone stayed put, except to go to Church, and the tall buildings held only offices.

  As the taxi approached the Brooklyn Bridge, Shirley gasped. She wanted to jump out and touch it. Never had she seen anything like it before, not even in pictures. How was it held upright? Surely not by the ropes that looked like Mother’s knitting st
retched out.

  Sometimes Shirley wondered why she was not afraid. But there was too much magic in this new place for her to question it. And besides, she was with Father. Once more she took his hand.

  Soon after crossing the bridge, the taxi stopped. The houses here were short, just a few stories high. They were built of stone and they all looked exactly alike. They stood directly on the street, unprotected by garden walls. Steps leading to doors went up and down from the ground.

  “We are here!” Father announced.

  Shirley’s new home was on the third floor. Altogether, the place was barely larger than her own room had been in the clan compound. But her disappointment did not last, for Father was so proud of it.

  “Look at these walls,” he boasted. “I spent an entire week cleaning every inch with a scouring pad.”

  A sofa and a chair covered in a faded floral pattern sagged where people had sat. Set against the wall was a square table and three straight-backed chairs, chairs without dragon feet. In the middle of the room was a plain, unlacquered screen. It hid the only purchase Father had made, a brass bed for two.

  “Where will I sleep, Father?”

  “Ah!” Father opened a door. “For you, my daughter, a most special place.” Behind the door was a place with drawers up to the ceiling on both sides. Pulling out the bottom ones, he flipped them over and set them side by side, then placed three cushions over them. “A fine bed for you. Try it.”

  Shirley lay down.

  “I knew it.” Father beamed. “Just your size.”

  Shirley nodded, although she wondered what would happen if she grew another inch. Perhaps Father thought she had attained her full height.

  “Come along, I’ll show you the kitchen.”

  It did not look at all like a kitchen. No hanging ducks or hams. No woodpile or soot. No picture of the Kitchen God. Just a tiny room with a washing bowl and two white boxes.

  “Where is the cook?” Mother asked.

  This time Father’s crooked smile was even more crooked than usual. “In America, all cooks work in restaurants.”

  Must we eat out for every meal? Shirley wondered.

  “In America,” Father continued, “the wife cooks.”

  Then we shall starve, Shirley thought. Unlike the Aunties, Mother had never had any interest in preparing food.

  Father opened the bigger of the white boxes. “It’s easy. Everything needed is in here.” Eggs hung in the door, bottles with colored fluids stood on a shelf. There were beans, spinach and oranges in one drawer, slabs of meat in another.

  Peeking inside, Shirley got goose bumps from the cold. But she couldn’t find the window. She tugged Father’s coat. “I don’t see the window to the outside,” she said.

  Father laughed. “This, Shirley Temple Wong, is an icebox. A machine that cools food and keeps it from spoiling. In America you only have to market once a week, not every day.”

  “And I suppose,” Mother said, “in America the wife does that, too.”

  “That’s right.”

  For a moment, Shirley thought Mother was going to cry. But she didn’t. Instead, after a while, she said, “Well then, I shall learn to cook and shop.”

  “And launder, too, my wife. But for cooking and washing you will have help.”

  Mother sighed. “Thank Buddha for the servant.”

  “No, no. Not that kind of help.” Smiling as he did whenever he was about to reveal a wonderful secret, Father struck a match and put it to the top of the second white box. Poof! Out came blue fire. Off went Mother to hug the wall.

  “A stove fit for a banquet!” Father laughed. Shirley dared not.

  Father opened another door. Behind it was what Shirley recognized as a tiny room for bathing, even though the tub was neither tall nor round nor of wood. It was white, and inside it stood a large, metallic can. Father took out a hose and attached it to the nozzle at one end of the tub and then, twisting a knob, called forth water that filled the metal can to overflowing.

  “Watch carefully,” he said, looking up with that smile again.

  Mother stepped backward, but Shirley, anxious to prove her mettle, leaned forward an inch.

  “Are you watching?”

  The new arrivals nodded uncertainly as he dumped a cupful of blue powder into the water. Then, with a flourish, he plugged the attached wire into the wall.

  Chug! Chug! Chug! The metal can bounced, banging against the walls of the tub like a squat madman foaming at the mouth.

  The sight sent Mother out of the room.

  “What is it?” Shirley finally asked, hoping not to appear ignorant, but hoping more that the thing would not escape the confines of the tub and test her resolve.

  “A machine that washes.”

  “Washes?”

  He nodded proudly.

  For a moment Shirley hesitated, then decided she had better speak up. “Father, if you don’t mind, I prefer to bathe alone.”

  To her dismay, Father doubled over with laughter. Or was it pain? It was hard to tell from the way he kept trying to tame the expression on his face each time he opened his mouth. Obviously he wanted to say something, but could only make noises that sounded like sobs. Again and again he shook his head at his foolish child. Too foolish, obviously, to appreciate such a marvel. One that must have cost him hundreds of dollars. Or worse yet, one that Father had invented himself.

  At last, he spoke. “Not you, Bandit. Clothes.”

  “Clothes?”

  “All types of clothes. Your mother will love it.”

  Shirley did not think so.

  The tour finished, Father took them for a walk around the neighborhood. All the streets looked alike. Each street was flat and painted black. There were no steep hills. Each house was a replica of theirs. Every place stuck to the next. Wall to wall, without any gardens. No moon gates or fan windows or stone lions. Now and then a tree, but no flower beds. With no servants, how could there be gardens? But then, with no servants there would be no Awaiting Marriage to spoil Shirley’s fun either.

  Even the one bicycle she saw was strange. It had three wheels.

  Only a short distance from her house were stores. “This is for groceries,” Father said. “That is for snacks. And this is the place where I buy my newspapers and cigarettes.”

  Shirley’s stomach began to growl and they returned home. Father prepared lunch. Orange noodles out of a can. Mother smiled. “So simple. Cooking in America will be no chore at all.”

  When the dishes were done, friends arrived. Father introduced them as Mr. Hu, Mr. Tan, Mr. Lin and Mr. Koo. They were all men working in America, anxious for news of home and family. Eagerly they queried Mother, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. How proudly Father looked on!

  Before long, there were no more cigarettes. Father put on his coat to go out and buy more for his guests.

  Then, a wonderful idea popped into Shirley’s head. She would go for the cigarettes.

  “Father, you stay. I’ll go for the cigarettes,” she said.

  “You?”

  “I can find my way. You pointed the store out to me this morning.”

  He looked pleased but skeptical.

  She had to convince him. Everybody was listening. On each face, a grin, the knowing kind elders give to children. Shirley did not like it.

  Father must have sensed her discomfort, for he reached for her coat and said, “Let us go together then.”

  “Father, please let me go by myself.”

  He looked toward Mother, who gave a quick but emphatic shake of the head. But before she could actually say no and ruin Shirley’s plan, Shirley spoke up, twisting and turning, marking the steps as if showing off a fancy dance. “All I do is turn right at the bottom of the stairs, walk until the end of the block, then turn left until I reach the store. And to come back, I turn right, then right again to our house, which is the second from the end and has a boat painted on the hallway light.”

  The guests applauded.

  Kno
wing too well that Mother would not approve of her performance, Shirley never took her eyes off Father.

  He hung up his coat.

  Shirley stood tall as a warrior. Once Father made up his mind, Mother would not try to change it. Even Grandfather had despaired of trying, and that’s why they were in America.

  Opening the door, Father said, “Say Lucky Strike.”

  “Rukee Sike.”

  “Tell the man in the store, Lucky Strike.”

  “Rukee Sike.”

  “You won’t forget.”

  “Not I!”

  With a dollar to buy four packs, Shirley started off, skipping and chanting all the way:

  “Right, left

  Rukee Sike.

  Right, right

  home.”

  At the store a skinny man with a big red nose welcomed her with a smile. Encouraged, she opened her mouth wide to pronounce her first English words for an American. “Rukee Sike!”

  But instead of giving her the cigarettes, he rattled off a string of nonsensical sounds.

  What if she couldn’t make him understand?

  She puffed on an imaginary cigarette and shouted again, “Rukee Sike! Rukee Sike!”

  This time he nodded. Then shook his head.

  What does he mean, she wondered. Yes, he understood. No, he didn’t.

  She was about to try again when he ran around the counter and took her by the hand to the door. Pointing to another store across the street, he shouted even louder than she had. “Rukee Sike! Rukee Sike!”

  Ah! Now she understood. Yes, her English was most proper. No, he did not have Father’s brand. But . . . that other place did.

  Shirley thanked the man with a low bow, then hurried across the road, blushing. How awful it would have been to have returned home without proof of her triumph!

  The woman in the second store was reading a book. Without glancing up when spoken to, she plunked down one, then another, until all four packs were safely in Shirley’s hands.

  Simple. It was quite simple. Nothing to it at all, Shirley thought as she fingered the cellophane and walked proudly out the door. Turning right, she could almost see Father smiling at his amazing daughter as he passed cigarettes to the men, who shouted and clapped. Turning right again, she imagined Mother, teary with pride, reaching for a handkerchief. Congratulations, Shirley Temple Wong! Congratulations!