by An Na
Rainy-Day Surprises
Rain splatters over the car. Joon and I are jailed inside with only a soccer ball and one old library book. Joon lies flat on his stomach, taking up the whole back seat. He hangs his chin over the edge of the seat and picks lint off the car floor. He piles the lint on top of the hump that makes the border for feet space.
Usually it is not this bad on Thursdays and Fridays, when Uhmma and Apa both work late at their second jobs. Waiting for Uhmma at Johnny’s Steak House is better than “Please do not touch that” if we wait at Gomo’s house. Next year, when I am old enough, Uhmma says I can watch Joon all by myself at home.
When it is not raining, Joon and I play in the alley behind the restaurant, next to the open door of the kitchen. We can bounce the soccer ball against the gray walls until the manager comes outside and says, “Cut out that racket.” Then we play two-square and make up our own rules like No Bounce, Around the Back, and Sky Ball.
And right before the sun goes down, before the rush of knives chopping, food flying, and “Order ready!” singing out, Uhmma will come out of the kitchen and give us our dinner. If we are lucky, it might be ginger chicken, spicy hot, fire on the tongue. But most times it is soup and rice in a bowl, all mixed together so you can eat it with one big spoon. Joon and I sit on the curb with our bowls balanced on our knees, slurping like we are not supposed to at the dinner table. We laugh and see who can make the grossest noise.
But today, because it is raining and the cars are pulling off the freeway quick quick for a long, early dinner, Uhmma can only rush out with two dry old hamburgers and a big carton of milk. After we finish our dinner, Joon can’t sit still. He crawls around in the back seat sticking his hand down between the seat cushions for change. After he finds only two dimes, Joon bounces the soccer ball off the ceiling and starts to sing. Soon the whole car is rocking with his crazy song. “Spider-Man. Spider-Man. He can do what no one can.”
I turn on the flashlight and read him a story about Frog and Toad to make him be good. He bounces the ball against his knee and laughs at all the funny parts. When the book ends we shine the light out the window. We watch the rain hit the black tar and bounce back up like a million tiny silver grasshoppers.
After a while Joon yawns and lets the ball fall to the floor. He curls up in the back seat, one arm under his head. A calm, slow breathing fills the air. I turn off the flashlight and sit in Uhmma’s seat. Even though it is raining, the kitchen door is wide open. Inside, people rush back and forth carrying plates. I keep my eyes on the door and think about the last rainy day.
That time the storm was so strong, Uhmma had to hold the umbrella with two hands. She came to the car and tapped softly on the window and I was the only one awake. I opened the door. Uhmma asked, Are you still hungry?
Yes, I whispered even though my stomach felt full. She put her arm around my shoulders and led me out of the car. She closed the door quietly so as not to wake Joon and locked up the car.
Uhmma whispered, The manager went up front for a break. You can come inside for a little while.
When I stepped into the kitchen, steamy fingers of steak and garlic drew me farther inside. Faces from the stove and sink turned to smile, but then moved so fast their words trailed like smoke from a train.
“Suna-san, you girl amai,” said the woman who flipped the steaks on the grill.
“Pretty girl you got, Suna,” sang a waitress with curly sunray hair. She picked up her orders, placing them three plates across on one arm, and headed for the door.
“How old you?” asked the old cook with crescent-shaped eyes and night spreading his two front teeth. Uhmma had told me about this Chinese cook before. He knew how to take away a headache just by pushing a certain place on your palm. “Ten,” I said. And then because he giggled, I held up both hands and showed him all of my fingers. He gave my fingers a tug.
“You wanee somu soupu?” he asked, pretending to slurp from a bowl. I nodded my happiness and waited for my reward of a small, warm bowl.
I carried my bowl to a table tucked in the back of the kitchen. Uhmma sat drinking tea with the woman who worked at the grill. Grill Woman’s hair was wrapped tight on top of her head, pulling her eyes up at the corners. Uhmma patted the seat next to her and continued talking to her friend. I sat down and sipped quietly at my soup.
Uhmma and Grill Woman spoke in a language of mixed and chopped Korean and Japanese, glued together with pieces of English.
“Suna, kinoo that ahjimma scratch car,” Grill Woman said, her eyes small and bright, the size of new pennies.
“Aigoo. Fix takai?”
“No, scratch chiisai.” Grill Woman picked up her cup of tea with her pinkie sticking straight out. I watched her pinkie dance in the air. Uhmma held her cup with both hands, blowing into the steam before each sip. I looked at my hands holding the bowl of soup. Just like Uhmma’s. I blew into my bowl and took a sip.
Uhmma was quick to laugh at all of her friend’s words. Her squeaky-shoes laugh was back and her face shone bright as a full moon on cold, clear nights. Sometimes when she was speaking fast, she put her cup down and her hands waved and danced in the steamy air. This was a different Uhmma. Not a sad, tired Uhmma who cooked and cleaned and sometimes yelled, but a stranger who had a friend and a secret language all her own. Not my Uhmma. A Suna.
All around me the pots clanked, knives stomped, and the sound of sizzling steak swirled through the air. The waitress with the sunray hair came back through the swinging doors. She held out two bubbly pink drinks, each with a cherry, red as candy, floating in the ice.
“Here, Suna, I brought you and your daughter your favorite drink. A Shirley Temple.” The waitress winked at Uhmma as she set down the drinks.
“Oh, tank you, Kim-bru-rie,” Uhmma said. Uhmma pushed one drink toward me and picked up the other, raising it high in the air. She waited for me to copy.
We clinked glasses just like people in the movies. Uhmma took a sip of the magic drink, then smacked her lips. I took a sip and felt the familiar sting of fizz but with the sweetness of cherries and sunshine all mixed together. I smacked my lips and looked up at Uhmma.
Good? she asked.
Good, I said.
Outside the rain kept falling. A few of the waitresses complained it was miserable weather. Everyone in the kitchen agreed. I bowed my head, watched the cherry float around in my glass. If I could have had one wish, right then, a genie ready for an order, I would have asked that the rain fall forever.
Now Joon wakes up and kicks the back of the driver’s seat. “I hate rainy days. Where is Uhmma? I want to go home.” Joon kicks the seat a few more times and then becomes quiet again.
I watch the open kitchen door and do not say anything. I like rainy days.
Strong Is a Man
Joon and Spencer sit sweating under the sun in the middle of the outside cement patio. Pieces of a Lego village are scattered all around them. They are so busy clicking the small gray blocks together that they do not hear me slide open the backyard glass door. They have one tower built, and Spencer checks the box to make sure they are building the second tower just like in the medieval castle in the picture.
“Joon,” I call from the doorway, “we have to go to Gomo’s house now.”
Joon looks up at the sound of my voice, but then with a scowl focuses back on the blocks in his hands.
I hear Apa calling to me from the living room, Is Joon Ho ready to go?
“Joon,” I say again, “it’s time to go.”
Joon stays kneeling on the cement floor. Apa comes from behind me to the sliding glass doorway.
Joon, clean up, Apa says.
Joon pretends he does not hear and busily snaps a block into place. Apa grabs the edge of the open door frame, the smell of bleach and Windex from cleaning the lawyers’ offices last night still lingering on his hands. He pushes me aside and walks over to Joon.
Joon still does not look up from the Legos but begins to complain, I hate going
to Gomo’s house for lunch. Why do we have to go? It is so boring. All we do is sit. There is nothing for us to play with there. I have no fun.
I stand in the doorway, unable to leave even though I know what is going to happen next.
Joon Ho, get up, Apa orders, standing over him.
Joon tilts his head back and then scrambles up on his feet.
You are whining like a girl, Apa says and cuffs Joon on the head.
Joon’s eyes squint against the pain, but more than that, the humiliation of being punished in public, in front of his friend.
Spencer turns away, rubs the side of his crewcut white-blond hair with the back of his knuckles. He has had the same haircut for as long as he and Joon have been friends.
Apa notices Spencer’s movements and gives him a wide, only-for-guests smile. “Shu-pen-cher,” Apa says. “Time you go home now. Joon Ho back soon.”
“Sure, Mr. Park,” Spencer says, ducking his head and rubbing the fuzz above his ear.
“Good boy,” Apa says, the same smile stuck to his face.
“See ya, Joon.” Spencer takes off around the side of the house, leaving behind his Lego set.
Apa waits for Spencer to disappear and then turns back to Joon. The smile flies off his lips faster than a door slamming.
Joon keeps his head bowed, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side.
Apa steps closer to Joon. Yah, look at me when I am talking to you.
Joon lifts his face. His eyes glower.
Wipe that look off your face, Apa orders.
Joon’s face twitches as he tries to recompose himself, tries to relax the corners of his eyes and focus on something over Apa’s shoulder. I know the technique, how to look blank and as if you are listening when really you are trying to fly away from your body. You can’t let Apa know what you are thinking or it will be worse.
What have I told you about whining?
Do not whine, Joon repeats from a well-heard speech.
What else? Apa asks, stepping even closer.
Only girls whine. Men are stronger than that.
Good. Then why were you acting like a girl?
I do not know, Joon says, his eyes holding a corner of the sky.
You mean you forgot, Apa says and pokes Joon in the chest with the tip of his finger.
Joon stumbles back for a second and then rights himself.
You forgot, Apa says again, stepping in closer, making up for the lost ground.
Joon nods, his eyes tearing over even though he is holding on to that corner of sky like it is a line to heaven.
Say the truth, Apa orders.
I forgot, Joon drones.
Say it all, Apa snarls, biting down on his lower lip.
I forgot how to be a man, Joon says. A betraying tear slides down his face and Joon hurries to brush it off.
What are you crying for?
Joon shrugs.
Wrong answer. Apa slams his hand across Joon’s face.
Joon’s head jolts back. A howl escapes from his lips.
Uhmma comes to the doorway and stands behind me. She calls out to Apa over my head, Yuhboh, that is enough.
Apa turns toward her voice. Shut up, Apa says. Keep out of it. This is my son and he will not grow up weak.
Yuhboh, Uhmma says again.
Apa ignores her and focuses back on Joon. Stand up straight, Apa orders.
Joon straightens up, wiping the tears from his face, looking around for that corner of sky.
You cry like a girl. You whine like a girl. Have I not taught you anything? Be strong. Be a man.
Joon’s face grows blank again. He found it.
Apa continues, In this world, only the strong survive. Only the strong can make their future. If you cry and whine like a girl, who is going to listen to you? Who? If you talk like a man, fight like a man, you will get what you want in this world. Do you understand?
Yes, Joon whispers.
What did you say? Apa leans in, ear offered up as though listening for a mouse in the wall.
Yes, Joon says louder.
Yes, and what else? Apa asks, straightening up.
It is important for Joon to get it right. If he says what Apa wants to hear, the lecture will end. If he gets it wrong?
Joon hardens the muscles of his face. A mask of glass covers his eyes, cheeks, lips, forehead. Joon says clearly, I must talk like a man and fight like a man if I want to make my future.
Apa leans back on his heels, clasps his hands behind him. Good, Apa says. Good.
My held-in breath pops out from my chest in relief.
Joon looks in my direction.
Apa turns as if to leave and then pivots back around. He balances on one leg and swiftly kicks Joon in the stomach.
Joon never saw it. Never got to prepare his body. The mask of glass explodes into fine shards of pain, etching his face unrecognizable, old. In Joon’s place stands a prune-faced grandfather, stooped, holding his stomach, unable to walk.
Uhmma pushes me to the side and rushes out to Joon. Apa grabs her by the shoulder and stops her in one abrupt movement. Joon’s mouth gapes wide open as he fights for air.
Apa shoves Uhmma in front of him as they turn back to the house. Apa says calmly, He has to learn his lesson.
Apa stops at the scattered Lego set and tells Joon, Hurry and clean that up before we leave for your Gomo’s. I do not want to be late.
Joon hobbles over to the Legos.
I back away as Apa and Uhmma step inside. After they pass, I rush outside and help Joon clean up. We kneel together and disassemble the castle towers.
“I hate him,” Joon says.
I nod silently and drop the small gray plastic pieces back into the box. As I try to pull apart a red flag from a gray block, the flag breaks in my hand.
Joon’s eyes follow the sound of the snap. “That’s my flag!” Joon cries and jerks back his hand.
I stare at the broken flag in my palm. Joon’s slap rings in my ear.
Harry
We thought nothing would happen the way we wanted. Not ever.
Not the time Apa, with a distant edge in his eye, took us to see the new houses being built on a nearby hill and said, We shall see. But then we never did see, although Joon and I asked every day and even packed our clothes in brown paper grocery bags in case we had to move fast.
Not the time a letter addressed to Apa with the words “You Are the Next Ten-Million-Dollar Winner!” and two hazy men’s grins stamped on the front made Joon and me so crazy with heat we had to run up and down the hallway screaming.
And definitely not the time Harry died. It’s hardest to think of Harry because we tried that time. Really tried. It wasn’t about luck or waiting for Uhmma and Apa to tell us the good news. It was about us. Joon and me trying our best, like the teachers in school tell us to do and we’ll be rewarded. Even then. Nothing.
Harry was our baby bird, an orphan we had to save because we found him crying all alone with no one to take care of him. He was worse off than we were. Joon found him on the way home from the corner market one day. As always, Joon was running ahead of me, gathering up speed on the downhill so that he could jump over a low juniper bush. Joon leapt forward, and then just as it looked like he might clear, his back foot caught a branch.
I think it was fate that made Joon fall when he tried to jump over that bush. If Joon’s head hadn’t been so close to the ground the moment Harry peeped for help, we would never have found him. He was such a little bird. Nothing but a spit mark on the dirt.
When we got Harry home, Joon and I made up some juk-rice and warm water all mixed together looking like glue. It was the food Uhmma fed us when we were sick. Every time Harry opened his mouth we fed him a spoonful of juk. After a while Harry was covered with it, but he stopped crying and fell asleep.
Joon didn’t think Uhmma and Apa should know about Harry. “He’s our bird, Uhn-nee. We have to take care of him.” Joon’s eyebrows knitted together in a dark scowl. “Anyway, the
y might not let us keep him.”
So we wrapped Harry in an old towel and put him in a shoebox. We hid him in the back of Joon’s closet. Ellie, the purple-nosed elephant, stood guard. We tried to love Harry the way good parents are supposed to. We cooed and petted his short, dark feathers. We held him next to our cheeks and told him he was going to grow up to be a strong bird.
After school, we would “guy-bye-boh” to see who had to clean out the box and who got to feed Harry.
“Ready?” I asked Joon.
“Ready.”
“Guy. Bye. Boh.” We shook our fists in rhythm to the words.
Joon held out his hand flat. Paper.
I held out two fingers in a V. Scissors. Scissors cut paper.
“I win,” I said and gently scooped up Harry. Joon picked up the box, his head angled away from the odor.
“When do you think we should teach him to fly?” I asked as I spooned some juk into Harry’s mouth.
“Soon, I think,” Joon said, scraping out the inside of the box with a crumpled piece of paper. He turned to me with a grin. “I bet Harry’s going to grow to be an eagle.”
I looked at Harry’s skinny neck. I didn’t know about that, but I didn’t say anything.
When Harry got to be a little bigger, Joon cupped him in his hands and zoomed around the house.
“I’m teaching him how it feels to have the wind in his face,” Joon said when I worried Harry might get dizzy. I sat on the couch hugging my knees, fingers crossed in hope that Joon would not crash into a wall. I knew Harry had to learn how to be a bird someday. He was growing fast.
But then he stopped. Growing. Breathing. We opened the closet door and Harry didn’t peep when the light reached him. I took out the box. Harry lay curled up in the towel, still and quiet as the sunlight falling on the bed. I didn’t want to believe what I saw. I closed my eyes. Maybe Harry would move when I opened my eyes again. No. I started to cry and looked over at Joon. He stood stiff and straight, staring at the wall above his bed, clenching and unclenching his fists. I touched his shoulder. Joon jerked away.
