In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson

by Bette Bao Lord

  “Yes, Mother.”

  But as soon as her mother’s back was turned, Shirley secretly dumped the concoction. Not because of a lack of faith in her mother’s remedies. Just the opposite. She was sure the Señora would rather find upon her return a parrot, however bald, than Toscanini with yards of straight black hair.

  Shirley was still worrying the night before the first day of school. Everything had been readied—new shoes that did not pinch, spiral notepads that rustled like dollars from the bank, and yellow pencils sharpened to a decimal point, without a tooth mark to be found. Yet . . . and yet, she was uneasy. The problem was not just Toscanini. What was it then?

  As she lay in the dark, her thoughts flitted here and there, never staying for long, like the glow of fireflies on a late summer’s eve. Vacation had sped by as swiftly as an arrow. But she liked school and certainly missed all the friends she had made there. Why was she shy about seeing them again?

  Shirley hid her face in the pillow. She knew the answer. She was afraid her friends might have changed, just as change had come to her. It was true, she no longer thought so often about Fourth Cousin, once her best friend. And lately, almost not at all about the other cousins.

  She still spoke Chinese with her parents, but even then foreign words were substituted for those that did not come easily. Mother corrected her. “Make an effort, Shirley. You must not forget you are still Chinese.”

  “Yes, Mother.” But then out would pop another English expression, one for which there was no Chinese equivalent—Gee whiz! Baloney! Just for kicks! Party pooper! Fat chance! What’s up?

  For a moment, Shirley had the urge to look in the mirror. She hardly ever did that, not like some others she had seen in the girls’ room fussing with themselves as if a stray hair could send them to jail. Did she look different now? Now that she was thinking more and more in English? Was her black hair turning blond? Was her nose getting higher? If she had a choice, she’d just as soon stay the same. Not that there was anything wrong with looking different, but she was used to the way she was. Lately the tenants had begun remarking on how grown up she looked. She wasn’t sure she approved.

  What was wrong with Shirley Temple Wong, as is? Nothing.

  Yet . . . and yet, she was worrying about things that had not happened, just like grown-ups. It was awful.

  Yawning, she closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she was in Chungking, walking up the Mountain of Ten Thousand Steps. The fog was dense, like steam from the bowels of the earth. She did not know if it was dawn or twilight, an in-between time. Her legs felt heavy, as if she were wading through deep water. She came to a fork in the road, one she remembered well, but now she could not tell which path was the way home. She looked to the east and thought she heard her mother call, “This way. This way.” She looked to the west and thought she heard her father call, “This way. This way.” Confused, she did not know how to choose. Then she thought that perhaps she had imagined it all, for suddenly the voices were gone and she was afraid to venture down either path and be lost.

  Better go back, she thought. She had come too far. No telling whether the voices were fox spirits, imitating the voices of loved ones, out to entrap her.

  She turned and ran. Ran until she bumped into a wall. It encircled her. She could see over it, but it was too high for her to scale. On the other side she recognized Fourth Cousin, and all the other cousins. They stared at her, a look of disgust on their faces.

  “It’s me, Shirley Temple Wong. It’s me, Sixth Cousin. It’s me, Bandit. Let me out. Let me in.”

  Her clansmen pointed and began to laugh. She called their names, reminded them of the memories they shared. There was no sign that they understood a word. When she waved her hands frantically, they did too. When she jumped up and down, they did too. When she cried out, they did too. They were all making fun of her.

  Eventually she noticed Grand-grand Uncle. He was painting. She leaned over the wall and pleaded with him to set her free. He nodded to himself, happy with his work. The children studied the painting, then her. They howled with pleasure.

  At last, he was finished and held up the picture. It was of a strange creature—a pigeon-toed bird with scanty green feathers and red palms. It was Shirley.

  “Shirley, Shirley, wake up. It’s time to go to school. Wake up.”

  She threw her arms around her mother and could not stop trembling.

  “What’s the matter? Did you have a nightmare?”

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  “It was nothing. Just a dream.” Her mother’s voice was soft, so welcome to her ears.

  When, finally, composure returned, she asked, “You would know me anywhere, wouldn’t you, Mother? No matter how I had changed. You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “My daughter, I’d know each hair on your head.”

  By the time Shirley had entered the sixth-grade room of P.S. 8, she had forgotten the nightmare and, with it, her fears. At Mr. P’s Tommy O’Brien had snuck up from behind to tug a braid. “Hey, Chop Suey, how are you doey?” Grinning, he then bowed deeply. She thought it rather wonderful that he remembered something she had done so long ago. Mabel joined them. “What do you know, de Bums are sure doing the job!” She jumped up to snatch an imaginary ball and sent it flying before her feet touched the ground. Joseph came huffing. “Hey, wait up!” He had gotten even rounder. Maria offered them a fistful of Double Bubble gum. Even Irvie sort of waved from across the street.

  It was a new classroom, but they all took their old seats and talked about who their new teacher might be. When Mrs. Rappaport walked in, the class cheered.

  “No use breaking up a winning team!”

  While books were being passed out, the principal came in with a new student. “Class, this is Emily. Emily Levy.”

  Shirley knew immediately that they would be friends. Emily had huge blue eyes that were magnified even larger by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and she was the only other girl in class, besides herself, who wore two long braids. Though plain, she did not look at all like Fourth Cousin. Yet . . . there was something about her that reminded Shirley of her once-favorite companion. Perhaps it was the impression they both gave of no nonsense.

  Their friendship began at lunch, when Shirley showed Emily where to buy tickets and took her through the line, whispering who among the counter ladies gave generous portions and what was good to eat and what should be avoided at all costs. “The corn muffins are the same ones from last year. Never, never touch the rice pudding.”

  Seated, Emily gave an efficient shake of her milk carton and asked without further ado, “Do you like to study?”

  Shirley looked around to see if anyone had heard or could hear, but before she could answer, Emily confessed, “I do. I don’t play anything but board games or charades. I read books, lots of them. I practice the cello two hours a day. My father’s a psychiatrist. My mother’s a committeewoman. I have two older brothers and sisters, and we all are progressives.” Throughout her recitation, her blue eyes never blinked. They just peered straight into Shirley’s, as if testing her.

  Shirley wanted to laugh, but thought better of it. Clearing her throat, she replied in tones worthy of a monk collecting alms. “I like to study. I play all games. I read books. I hate the piano. My father’s an engineer. My mother’s a landlady. I have eight cousins, and we all are Chinese.”

  The response was obviously satisfactory, for Emily took a bite out of her tuna fish sandwich.

  It was only after Shirley went to Emily’s house that she understood what her new friend had said. A cello was a big violin that sat on the floor. A progressive was someone who called her mother and father by their first names. A psychiatrist was a doctor who never wore a white coat and kept an office in the basement of a brownstone house furnished with a desk, a chair and a leather couch and lots of books, but no glass-enclosed shelves of scissors, needles, vials, bandages or medicines, herbal or otherwise. A committeewoman wore charcoal sweaters a
nd skirts of scratchy material and wrote notes on a bulletin board while talking to other committeewomen on the telephone. Board games were not played with a ball. Charades was fun.

  Shirley’s mother heartily approved of this new friendship, for never once did Shirley return from Emily’s dirty, tattered or wounded. Never once without a borrowed book to read. Emily had the entire collection of Nancy Drew mysteries. Her brothers had every adventure that Zane Grey ever wrote. Best of all, the Levy family played chamber music every afternoon, thus broadening Shirley’s cultural horizons. In the beginning, Shirley only listened politely, hunting for the tune, because all too often each instrument sang its own song and confused her. How do you listen to several conversations at once? Still, she admired the ritual, envying the Levys the pleasure they took in one another’s company, wishing her cousins lived nearby so she could have an orchestra of her own.

  Only one aspect of her friendship with Emily would have displeased her mother, but she was not likely to find it out, and so Shirley did not trouble herself too much over it.

  One afternoon, when they were alone in the house, Emily closed her arithmetic book and whispered, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you swear it in blood?”

  Shirley thought it over and asked, “How much blood?”

  “Not much.”

  How much was not much, she wondered? Before she had a chance to inquire further, Emily rushed out of the room. She returned brandishing a long pin with a pearl on one end.

  “Give me a finger.”

  Shirley reluctantly offered a pinky.

  With a quick motion Emily stabbed it, and while Shirley stared at the blood oozing out, her friend performed the same operation on her own finger. Then solemnly pressing pinky upon pinky, she said, “Swear unto death that it will be our secret no matter what.”

  “I swear.”

  Unblinkingly from behind the glasses, Emily insisted, “Swear the entire oath.”

  “I swear unto dea . . .” Shirley hesitated. Grandmother had always forbidden the saying of that word. “Say it and the gods will be tempted to make it so.” But how could she refuse now? Her best friend was waiting. Perhaps, she prayed, the gods only spoke Chinese, never studied English, would not recognize temptation in another language. “. . . death, that this will be our secret no matter what.”

  The corners of Emily’s mouth lifted into a wicked smile. “Come!”

  They tiptoed down the stairs past the living room, down the stairs to Dr. Levy’s office. Emily put her ear to the door. Shirley did the same. She could not hear a sound. Emily carefully tried the knob. It turned and they slipped inside.

  “Look out the window and see if anyone’s coming.”

  Shirley did as she was told. A pair of trousers walked by, followed by a dog, which stopped to sniff a tree. The animal glared at her as if to ask, what are you up to? Shirley ducked.

  “Anyone there?”

  “No.”

  “Then come quick.”

  Shirley turned but saw no one.

  “Here, behind the desk.”

  She almost fell over the book that lay open on the rug.

  “Look. Isn’t this a wonderful secret?” Giggling, Emily pointed to the page.

  Shirley dared not look. What terrible thing warranted such precautions?

  “Look!”

  She did. “What is it?”

  “Naked people!” whispered Emily.

  Oh. Shirley looked and looked, but did not recognize anyone she knew. The pictures were more like road maps colored in blue and red than flesh and bones.

  “You can see everything.”

  That was true. Livers. Lungs. Stomachs. Brains. Even an unborn baby. Yuck!

  Not to spoil Emily’s fun, Shirley pretended enthusiasm. “I’ve never ever seen pictures like these before.”

  “Of course not. This is my father’s book. Gray’s Anatomy. We can find out everything, just everything, reading it.”

  The book was thick, thicker than any dictionary. Shirley had no desire to read the small print and whispered, “I hear footsteps.”

  Now she could but watch as her friend performed the mad antics of a comedian in an old-fashioned movie—scurrying here and there, bumping into the furniture, tripping over her own feet, hiding the evidence and stealing up the stairs.

  Panting in the safety of her room, Emily cautioned, “Remember, it’s our secret.”

  No secret was ever so safe.

  A secret, like a chore, always seems to lead to another, one even more troublesome than the first. Shirley’s second secret began the night of the final encounter between the Dodgers and the Cardinals. Her team led the league by 4½ games, but their opponents were the defending champions and still had a chance to take the pennant. It wasn’t going to be easy, not with Harry Brecheen pitching for the Cardinals. He had been the hero of the last World Series. Even before the players took the field, Red Barber’s voice was hoarse with excitement.

  Suddenly her mother claimed Shirley’s attention. “Have you done all your homework?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, you won’t mind doing something for Mrs. O’Reilly, will you?”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I think it is an opportunity . . .”

  Rats! Another opportunity.

  “Mrs. O’Reilly has asked you to baby-sit tonight. The poor woman has not been able to go to church to do her good works since the babies came. Now that you are grown up and they live only downstairs, Mrs. O’Reilly thought you might like to earn some money.”

  Money? That was different.

  “Does Mrs. O’Reilly have a radio?”

  Mother nodded, smiling.

  Well, then. It was a golden opportunity.

  The moment Shirley walked into the apartment, Mrs. O’Reilly picked up her pocketbook and was ready to go. “Dinner’s on the table. Their diapers are in their room. I should be back in about two hours. Any questions?”

  Shirley could not think of any. The radio was in plain sight, on the table next to the armchair.

  “Be good, boys, won’t you? Shirley’s here to take care of you.”

  Sean, Seamus and Stephen stopped pushing their toy cars around the floor to look up with identical sweet smiles and wave.

  “Bye-bye, Mommy.”

  “Bye-bye, Mommy.”

  “Bye-bye, Mommy.”

  As soon as the door closed, Shirley turned on the radio and twisted the dial until she found the familiar sounds of the ball park. Nothing had happened in the first inning.

  Better get acquainted, she told herself and kneeled on the floor to say hello. But she got no response to Hi, Sean, Hi, Seamus or Hi, Stephen. The three merely crawled around, crying “Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.” When they sat perfectly still, each triplet was indistinguishable from his brothers. Now, in orbit, they were an endless multitude. The effect was far from relaxing.

  Grabbing the nearest, Shirley tried to station him in a high chair. The baby weighed less than Precious Coins, but was a lot more grief. He drooled with delight at Shirley’s foolish struggle to thread him into the chair. If the legs were in position, the head was turned the wrong way. If the head faced the right direction, the legs dangled over the table. If she begged the child to bend, he stiffened. If she begged him to straighten, he slouched, almost slipping through her hands. Compared to this, dressing an octopus would have been a cinch.

  One seated, two more to go. In each case, the battle was prolonged and silent.

  When all three were safely in their chairs, Shirley was exhausted, and Joe Garagiola hadn’t beaten the throw but had spiked Jackie Robinson’s foot instead and given all Dodger fans one more reason to hate the Cardinals. The stands were in an uproar. But nothing compared to the cries that now emanated from the triplets, each outdoing the other.

  “My chair. I want my own chair.”

  “My chair. I wa
nt my own chair.”

  “My chair. I want my own chair.”

  Shirley didn’t even know which one was Sean, Seamus or Stephen, much less their chairs.

  “Okay. Okay.” Shirley hurried to reverse the seating that had taken her an inning to accomplish.

  “Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.”

  Stamping her foot, she shouted, “Which is your chair?”

  All three pointed to the one facing the kitchen.

  “That mine.”

  “That mine.”

  “That mine.”

  Third Uncle was right. Money did not rain from the skies. But no baby was going to defeat her. She picked up the nearest one and sat down at the table. With one hand tight around his belly, she fed him with the other. The process was messy, like pitching coal onto a moving train.

  Meanwhile Robinson came to bat and almost got into a fight with the catcher, Garagiola. If it hadn’t been for the umpire, there would have been a riot in St. Louis. Shirley longed for just such an official to keep the peace among Sean, Seamus and Stephen. When one was not spitting out food, another was tugging at her skirt, while the third screamed for his car, which had rolled underneath the sofa.

  By the fifth inning, she had finally restored the dining room to its original condition. Now with one man on base, her hero smacked the ball right out of the park. She yelled hooray. The boys did too. But when she had stopped, they kept on yelling.

  “Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!”

  “Please stop, please, please don’t shout anymore.”

  She might as well have been speaking Chinese.

  Somehow she managed to peel off their clothing, stuff them into pajamas, and put them to bed. Then, muttering thanks to the Goddess Kwan Yin, she flung her weary self into the armchair to seek solace in the uninterrupted enjoyment of the last inning.

  No sooner had she done so than a chorus of cries issued from the bedroom.

  “Sean’s wet.”

  “Sean’s wet.”

  “Sean’s wet.”

  “Which one of you is Sean?”

  Silence. Drooling.

  Undoing the buttons from neck to toe, she looked for signs of Sean, wishing that they were dressed like Chinese babies, with a handy slit in their pants. How much simpler life had been in Chungking, when all she had had to do was lift Precious Coins’ legs over a chamber pot.