In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson

by Bette Bao Lord

  So what if she did not see her friends until September. She had Mother and Father and Señora, not to mention Toscanini. Shirley had plans too. Lots of them. Like playing the piano and reading. She might even learn to knit. Yuck! Well, perhaps not that.

  Determined to have a good summer, she raced the rest of the way home.

  Before long, Shirley was infected by a most severe case of Dodger fever. Not even strawberry ice cream could lure her away from the radio when Red Barber was broadcasting the latest adventure of de Bums. Truly nothing else mattered. Not the heat that glued her skin to the plastic chair, not an outing to the beach, not even a movie followed by a beef pot pie at the Automat. Every time Number 42 came to bat, she imagined herself in Jackie Robinson’s shoes. Every time the pigeon-toed runner got on base, she was ready to help him steal home. And when Jackie’s sixteen-game hitting streak ended, Shirley blamed herself. On that day, she had had to accompany her parents to greet Mr. Lee from Chungking. Obviously, it was her absence from the radio that had made all the difference.

  Neither Mother nor Father shared her enthusiasm. In fact, they welcomed the mayhem that emanated from the talking box as if it were a plague of locusts at harvest time. But none of their usual parental tricks succeeded in undoing the spell. What could possibly compete with the goose bumps Shirley sprouted each time Gladys Gooding and her organ led the crowd at Ebbets Field in the singing of “The Star Spangled Banner”? Shirley even talked the Señora into letting her off early to catch the final innings.

  She had grown quite fond of the toothless Señora, who no longer bothered with the formality of dentures at all during their lessons. “In. No smile, no talk. Out. No eat. Probleema! Big probleema!”

  Her initial impression of Toscanini had been more difficult to overcome, however. What a nag he was! Squawk, squawk, squawk. Even so, one sultry afternoon when the curtains hung perfectly still, she volunteered to take Toscanini for a walk.

  “Walk?” repeated the Señora, smacking her head in disbelief. “Walk? Dogs go for walks. Cats, may bee. But never birds.”

  “In China, birds go for walks every day.”

  “They do? Toscanini has made one walk in all his life—from shop to here.”

  No wonder the bird had such a terrible disposition, Shirley thought.

  “You tink he like?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “O-key do-key. You make walk.”

  Before appearing in public with Toscanini, however, Shirley had first to spruce up his cage. Its present condition would have shamed an elephant. Upstairs, she quickly dismissed Grandfather’s practice of setting the bird free during the cleaning and inviting it back inside with a mere whistle. Toscanini was hardly the type to be trusted. Besides, if Mother ever came through the door to find a strange parrot whooshing about the apartment, she would faint away. What to do? What to do?

  No probleema. With a pair of chopsticks, she removed what could be easily removed. With Father’s toothbrush, she tackled the rest.

  And Shirley was right. Toscanini loved walking. He blew out his chest to soak in the sunshine. He was sociable when strangers stopped to wish him a good day. He danced when Mr. P treated him to a handful of seeds. Not once did he flap his wings. Not once did he squawk.

  She could not wait to report on the success of their maiden voyage to the Señora, but once back inside the basement, Shirley saw immediately that her teacher was in no mood to enjoy the details. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, the figure in black stared blankly ahead. The folds of her cheeks were drawn in a mournful pucker. On her lap was a letter. She never noticed that her pupil was back.

  Instinctively, Shirley kneeled by the rocker and took the Señora’s hands in hers. “What’s wrong, Señora?”

  A tear fell and blurred the writing on the letter.

  “Please don’t cry, Señora. Please.” Shirley wondered if she should go get her mother.

  “Leetle girl, you are nice. Very nice. Like my Nonnie. She pretty too.”

  “Who’s Nonnie?”

  “My own leetle girl. She leeves far away in my old country. So far away.”

  Shirley could not bear to see the sadness on the Señora’s face and lowered her gaze until it rested on the old woman’s hands. Hands like those of Grand-grand Auntie, which she used to hold. Hands so old and so very far away. Suddenly, Shirley thought she would cry too.

  “I weesh to be with my Nonnie. I weesh every hour.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Who care for house? No rent, my people no eat. So I stay. Like a watchdog with family away. Ten years now, I am watching. Ten years, without my Nonnie.”

  It was a lifetime. More years than Shirley had been alive, more years, perhaps, than Grand-grand Uncle had left in this world.

  “Once I visit old country. I pay man to do for house. But he was bad. He steal rent. Now can never go back again.”

  Shirley looked up. “But you can go. You can. My mother and father will look after the house. They are worthy. They come from an illustrious clan from the ancient civilization of China. Don’t cry anymore. You can go to your Nonnie.”

  The idea pleased the old woman, for her lips parted until her pink gums showed in a huge smile. Then she giggled like a maiden. “Si! Si!”

  “I knew you would see.”

  The probleema was solved. It was amazingly simple. All that was left to be done was to convince Mother and Father. Was this not proof of yet another great opportunity in modern America? Surely they could not possibly think this was just Bandit’s scheme to escape the tyranny of piano lessons for the joys of Jackie Robinson!

  August

  Monsters

  Within the week, Señora Rodriguez was happily on her way to Nonnie. Shirley barely recognized the woman who stepped into the taxi stuffed with suitcases stuffed with gifts. She wore a white linen suit and spectator pumps topped by a straw hat as smart as a lampshade. When she waved good-bye, her smile sparkled. A paste of Chinese herbs concocted by Mother had magically coaxed sore gums to adopt the twenty-eight intruders fashioned by the dentist.

  Once the taxi disappeared from view, Shirley turned to her parents. “Will it be difficult taking care of this house?”

  Father shrugged. “Probably not so difficult as raising a daughter.”

  “I will help. I promise.”

  “In that case”—Mother sighed—“kindly refrain from acquiring any more houses for the time being, my little landlord.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  They laughed. “Not at all. So long as we are collecting rents, we will not have to pay any.”

  “We’re rich! We’re rich!”

  “Not quite,” said Father with that smile. “The first month’s rent has already been spent. A surprise for you.”

  “A whole month’s rent just for me?”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  “What is it? Can I have it now?”

  “Patience. It will arrive soon enough.”

  That night, squeezed into her drawer bed like a step-sister’s foot in Cinderella’s shoe, Shirley could hardly sleep thinking of what the surprise might be. Not a piano, please let it not be a piano! The Señora had gone, but Toscanini was left in her care. If it was a piano, she must send a secret letter to China and tattle to the elders about her infamous piano lessons. Surely even a granddaughter who was a singsong girl would not do.

  Perhaps it was a lifetime ticket to Ebbets Field? No, her parents would never take her there.

  Another engine of some sort? That must be it, she thought. But what kind would be especially made for her? A bicycle? No, not expensive enough. An engine that would match her socks and hang up her clothes? She had never heard of one. A machine that would make strawberry ice cream? Now that would . . . She was asleep.

  The surprise was delivered the next afternoon. It looked suspiciously like a sofa. A plain, ordinary sofa just to sit upon. Father must have seen the disappointment on her face, because he quickly cautioned her. �
�It is not what it seems.”

  “It isn’t?”

  After the old sofa was removed and the new one was in place, he told Shirley to stand back and close her eyes.

  She did.

  When she opened them again, there stood a giant bed fit for an emperor. Shirley threw herself on the mattress and lolled about like a fish tossed back to the sea. “How did you do it, Father? How?”

  But before he could say a word, she shouted, “I know. It’s just another wonderful engine made in America.”

  The first Saturday after the departure of the Señora, Shirley sat at the breakfast table hunched over the sports page of the Herald Tribune. Her hero had led the Dodgers to extend their winning streak to thirteen games. But what did the writer mean when he warned about the dog days of August?

  “Shirley, let’s go.”

  She looked up to see her father dressed in an old pair of pants and an even older shirt. Since he never went anywhere except in a handsome suit and jaunty bow tie, Shirley was surprised.

  “Where, Father?”

  “To work.”

  She was more puzzled than ever. Only other engineers understood what her father drew on blue paper. And he never dressed like this for the office.

  “Hurry! It’s about time we landlords took a good look at the property. We’ll start with the furnace room.”

  Standing in the dimly lit basement while her father tried one key after another, Shirley was glad she was not alone. The strangest noises oozed from behind the locked door. Perhaps Nonnie was not the real reason the Señora had been so anxious to leave. Perhaps there was a monster. One who dined on little girls and had terrible indigestion.

  The door creaked open. Father disappeared into the darkness. “I wonder where the light switch is?”

  Please let him find it quickly, she prayed. Shirley had to will herself to stay put. Surely that was the flash of the monster’s claws! Oh please!

  “There, that’s better.”

  The dungeon held no monster, but it was a beastly mess. The walls were stone, dirty and damp. The ceiling was cluttered with pipes that dripped, dripped, dripped and enough spiderwebs to keep Irvie content for a year. Piled high everywhere was junk, metal skeletons of forgotten species. In one corner stood a black iron box the size of several coffins. In another, huge rusty canisters. Underfoot, pools of murky water slick with oil. Fearing lizards and rats, cockroaches and snakes, Shirley hastened to her father’s side.

  “Yuck! This is horrible.”

  But Father did not seem to hear. He grinned as if he had unearthed a store of treasures, banging a pipe here, examining a wire there. “This will be a wonderful challenge. Just wonderful.”

  Had Father gone loco?

  Throughout the game with the Cubs, they worked. Sorting, cleaning, stacking, drying, saving, discarding, boxing. Throughout Shirley wished she had never heard of Nonnie. She longed for her old drawer bed. The emperor could keep his.

  The worst part of it was that Father did not even notice her unhappiness, her goodness. He hummed as he puttered. How could grown-ups be so blind to the pain of those younger and shorter than they? It was not fair.

  If only she had a fever, then she could rest. Mother would wait on her, making sweet-and-sour soup and all the things she liked to eat. Father would buy her presents. She could listen to the radio. But she almost never had fevers. So that was that.

  “Shirley, come here and help me with this.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  It was many evenings and weekends before Shirley realized the treasure her father had mined from the basement. With his alchemy of ingenuity and patience, he transmuted the junk into valued presents for every tenant who lived at Number Four Willow Street. A toaster for Professor Hirshbaum, who knew everything about everything except how to cook. A sewing machine for nearsighted Mrs. O’Reilly, who was forever tailoring old clothes for her triplets, Sean, Seamus and Stephen. A vacuum cleaner for Mr. Habib, who prized his carpets from Persia almost as much as his poodle, Mademoiselle F. P. At one time the initials had stood for Fifi Pompadour, but of late the pet had been known to all who shared the halls as Mademoiselle Faultee Plumbing. A fan for Widow Garibaldi, who now made Father an exception to her rule that men were never, ever to be trusted. An exercise machine for Mr. Lee, the 98-pound weakling.

  Meanwhile, in her role of unhappy helper but obedient daughter, Shirley had become quite adept with tools and familiar with the inner workings of the old house. What she could possibly do with her knowledge of the intake valve, the Phillips screwdriver, the temperature cutoff, the ground wire, she did not know. But Father’s pride in having raised a handygirl sometimes seemed worth the trouble.

  There was one task, however, from which Father excluded her. He was much too meticulous an artist to permit so unsteady a hand to apply even a drop of paint to his hallways.

  And so the Goddess Kwan Yin at last showed her mercy. While Father painted the halls a lovely pale beige, Shirley was free to add her howls to the protests against Enos Slaughter of the Cardinals, who had deliberately gone for Jackie Robinson’s leg instead of first base and spiked her hero. It was a heartbreaking game, and the Dodgers lost. But Robinson would not be sidelined, and de Bums took the next five. The pennant was within sight.

  One evening while Father was out and Shirley was pasting clippings in her Dodgers scrapbook, the lights suddenly went off. Yes, of course, naturally, Mother screamed.

  Every tenant was shouting up the stairwell. Mademoiselle yapped. Toscanini squawked. Sean, Seamus and Stephen cried.

  Shirley took charge. “Don’t worry, Mother. I know just what to do.”

  “You do? What is it? Do it quickly!”

  At every turn, Shirley collided with her mother. “Sit down, Mother. I will first go into the kitchen to turn on the stove. Then I will light a candle and change the fuses in the fuse box.”

  “Fuses? What’s fuses?”

  “Never mind.” Shirley’s tone befitted her superior knowledge. “You’ll see. Within minutes the lights will all go back on.”

  “Hurry! Hurry!”

  With key ring in one hand and candle in the other, Shirley made her way past the frantic tenants to the basement.

  There, she inserted the key into the lock. But as the door swung open, out went the flame. Onto the floor dropped the candle. Vanished, her confidence. It was darker than an underground cave on a moonless night. The familiar noises of the boiler and pipes no longer sounded so innocent, and though she knew spiders and vermin no longer lurked within, she pictured them, multiplied and magnified, waiting to take revenge upon the little landlord who had so callously ousted them from their ancestral homes.

  Her legs felt like spaghetti out of a can. The keys jingled in her hand. When she swallowed, it was her heart.

  Amitabha! Why had she been so quick to show off again? Next time, she would hold her tongue. Next time . . . if there ever was a next time.

  But done was done. She had to finish what she had started. Just a few steps to the fuse box. She must. She would. She had to.

  Pocketing the keys, she felt her way along the walls. Was it her imagination, or did they feel wet and sticky, like blood?

  Hand over hand she moved along the walls, stopping at each step to explore the surface, searching for the door to the fuse box. She should have reached it long ago. Who had moved it? If only she had a gourd to ward off the wicked spirits that delight in displacing everyday things. If only she had worn a talisman to insure her long life. But she was defenseless against all the demons of the dark. Defenseless even against her own thoughts, which told her that the walls were clammy with goo. Goo, like the innards of little girls.

  It seemed as if weeks had passed, as if she had inched along the entire length of the Great Wall of China, which the emperor had built to keep out the barbarians, all fifteen hundred miles of it, when she heard her father’s voice. “Shirley? Shirley?”

  Like a criminal pardoned at the gallows, she ran from the s
cene, hand over hand, along the walls, up the stairwell. “Father! Father!”

  Between the second and third floor landing, she fell into his arms. “I thought you might need some help,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if saying “Good morning.”

  Shirley took a deep breath, then waited for her voice to return. “I certainly could have done the job alone. Changing fuses is easy, but maybe with the two of us, it will go quicker.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  With the aid of his cigarette lighter, the mission was accomplished without mishap.

  But when the lights returned, Father screamed.

  Fearfully, Shirley looked around. Were there monsters after all? But no. To her horror she saw that the sticky goo had been no figment of her imagination. Unbeknownst to her, Father had painted the furnace room and the paint had not yet dried. Now everywhere Shirley looked were little red palm prints—little red palm prints, like a school of exotic fish, swimming down the halls and up the stairwell.

  Upon further study, she thought her handiwork rather dazzling. Most original. A masterpiece, even. If only . . . if only the other tenants of Number Four Willow Street could be made to think so too.

  But, alas, like that of so many great artists in history, Shirley’s genius went unrecognized. Her masterpiece soon lay unseen beneath several new coats of ordinary house paint.

  September

  Secrets

  The Dodgers were 7½ games ahead of the second-place Cardinals when the dog days of August ended. Alas, Toscanini had not fared as well. He looked awful, really chewed out, a shadow of his showy self. Much too much of him now feathered the bottom of his cage.

  Shirley worried.

  Father cited scientific proof that birds often molt during hot weather.

  Mother filled Toscanini’s cup with another herbal brew. This one, she assured Shirley, had successfully cured thousands of Chinese of baldness. “Wait and see!”