Necessary Roughness

by Marie G. Lee

  Her room was impeccable: the bed made, the desk clear with her books stacked, pencils neatly gathered in a GO MINERS! mug. The Korean quilts were completely smooth.

  I spied what I’d come for, grabbed it, and ran, shutting the door tightly behind me.

  O-Ma began to cry before we even reached the church steps. Abogee and I had to help her into the sand-colored building, the First Lutheran Church of Iron River. Her arm felt as light and fragile as a bird’s wing in my hand.

  Donna’s parents were there, but Donna was still in the hospital. Mr. Goeske, our math teacher, kneeled in a pew, apparently praying. Rainey waved sadly at me when she saw me. So did ALL-PRO. I waved back, got into the viewing line.

  I didn’t want to see my sister dead. The idea of an open casket is barbaric to me.

  But there was something I knew I had to do.

  When my turn came, I kept my eyes on the brass handles of the casket, and carefully laid Young’s flute in it.

  * * *

  The wailing.

  Mrs. Park and Mrs. Kim and Mrs. Lee just started wailing, “Aiii-gu!” “Aiii-gu!” “Aiii-gu!” and flailing their arms around.

  Other people in church, including the Reverend Mr. Hanson, jumped, then stared, like they weren’t sure what was going on.

  “Aiii-gu!” “Aiii-gu!”

  O-Ma had done this at Halmoni’s funeral, but not this loud, this intense. The air-raid noise went on without stopping for even a second, and I started to feel like it was going to burst my head from the inside.

  “Aii-gu!” “Aii-gu!”

  Make them stop! I wanted to shout. But when I looked over at O-Ma and Abogee, half expecting them to have their hands over their ears, I saw that they looked strangely calmed, as if these women were doing the noisy and messy grieving they couldn’t themselves.

  Finally the Reverend Mr. Hanson ascended to the pulpit, and the women stopped.

  The reverend said some words on death and dying, but I didn’t listen. He didn’t know Young at all. Everything he said reeked of fakeness—especially when he said things like “this young woman meant so much to all of us.”

  Sujin got up next. She was carrying a Korean-English Bible, just like Abogee’s. She was pale, her black eyes liquid. She opened the Bible on its ribbon and began to read.

  “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

  A time to be born, and a time to die,

  a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

  a time to kill, and a time to heal;

  a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; …

  a time to seek, and a time to lose;…

  He has put eternity into men’s mind, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to end…. That which is, already has been; and God seeks what has been driven away.”

  Jesus. Sujin. Corny, even in her grief.

  I wished it would rain, or snow, or do something as we filed out for the trip to the cemetery. But the sky was clear. It wouldn’t be long, though, before the ground was completely frozen.

  We all stood and stared at the casket. Everyone in our family was going to bow, in reverse order. The women started wailing, but more quietly this time, as I walked in front of the casket. Since I could remember, I had bowed to my parents every Saebae, New Year’s, so I sank to my knees and performed a bow without even thinking about how to do it. If Young’s spirit was truly around somewhere, she’d probably be laughing at me, practically shoving my face in the dirt for her.

  O-Ma and Abogee went next, together. O-Ma, supported by Mrs. Park and Mrs. Lee, did a small dip; I could see tears silently flowing down her face. I was thinking of this Korean proverb that Halmoni had told me: “When parents die, you bury them in the ground. When children die, you bury them in your heart.”

  All of a sudden Abogee jumped up from the ground and threw himself on top of the casket. A few people gasped.

  I was stuck to the spot. I was half hoping Abogee would howl and moan and shout and curse the gods so loud that the sky would split open.

  But he was just crying, making tiny animal noises. I’d never seen his face look so shattered, so broken. The whole world seemed to stop. No one knew what to do.

  Finally Mr. Park went up to Abogee and touched his shoulder. Mr. Park murmured something and then gently supported Abogee as he led him away from the casket.

  The casket was lowered, and each of us was given a chance to put a shovelful of dirt on top of it.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. I looked, but no one was there. O-Ma and Abogee were both watching the casket, the tears now dry on their faces. There was no breeze.

  Then it was over. Mikko came and gave me a bone-crunching hug. I held on to him like he was a tree. I was grateful he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t stand any more words.

  thirty-four

  “Who’s that guy?” Mikko stared at Bong, who was shoveling hotdish into his mouth about as fast as it would go.

  “My uncle Bong, the first owner of Froggie’s.”

  ALL-PRO picked apart a piece of potica, this layered dessert bread that someone had brought.

  “How come you guys came up here after he left?”

  “Like I told you, Bong went crazy for some other get-rich-quick scheme and took off, leaving us holding the bag with the franchise.”

  “So you didn’t know, then.”

  “Know what?”

  “That the cops were planning to raid the place. For drugs.”

  “Holy—You’ve got to be kidding.” So that explained the nervous, edgy guys who kept coming into the store asking for Bong, or asking for some unknown product that we were supposed to have and know by its code name, huh-huh-huh or whatever.

  “I guess when he skipped town, he ticked off the druggies who had outstanding orders. So they trashed the store.”

  “Ah,” I said. “The cinderblocks.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, there were a bunch of cinderblocks in the middle of the store. I’d always wondered how they got there.”

  “I can’t say for sure if there really was something going on,” ALL-PRO said, “but you know how word travels in town. So when you guys showed up, a lot of people thought we were in for more of the same—someone from the outside bringing drugs and stuff in.”

  “Oh, great,” I said. “Is that what you thought?”

  “No, not after I got to know you,” he said. “Honest. Like I said, when you play on a team with someone, you end up knowing what their real character is like.”

  “And?”

  “I wouldn’t be your friend if you were a craphead drug dealer.”

  Bong left later that day. What he had to rush back to, I didn’t know. On the car ride to the bus station I casually mentioned to him that people had come into the store looking for him. He ignored me.

  “People keep asking for this stuff, if we carry it, huh-huh huh, or something like that.”

  “I am very tired,” Bong said. “It has been a long day.”

  “What about the rent?” I pushed. “We came here and found out you owed two months’ rent on your apartment.”

  Bong smoothed his greasy hair, lit up a cigarette, and blew smoke out the window.

  “Stop bothering your uncle,” Abogee said.

  “Did Uncle ever explain why the store was in such bad shape?” I asked Abogee on the drive back. His jaw tightened.

  “I think he had some enemies in town.” “The less you speak, the better,” he said.

  O-Ma and Abogee drove the L.A. guests to the airport in the next town, and then we were all by ourselves again.

  Our house looked like a greenhouse. Even though we’d put a little notice in the obituary not to send stuff, people we didn’t even know brought enamel dishes wrapped
up in white cloths that said SWEDISH LADIES’ HOTDISH CLUB. Some people sent cards to Mrs. Knutson with cash in them.

  “People here want to help,” she told me. She passed the cards on to O-Ma and Abogee and secretly put the money in a savings account and gave me the passbook. “You will need this for college,” she said.

  thirty-five

  Five thirty. Time to go to practice. Two-a-days and weight training. We have a long journey ahead of us, Coach said in my dream. Might as well enjoy the ride.

  I blinked. Football didn’t mean the same thing to me anymore. What was different? I was tired. So tired.

  Seven o’clock. Time to get up for school.

  Seven thirty. Need to leave for school.

  Seven fifty. It’s too late. Why can’t I get up?

  Because I’m waiting for Young. I’m waiting for her to come up here and say, “Yo! Get your lazy butt out of bed, Oppa. I know you’re not sick, just avoiding reality.”

  But she’s not here. She’s gone. Forever.

  I pulled the covers over my head, closed my eyes, and slept for another few hours.

  When I just couldn’t sleep anymore, I wandered around the house. O-Ma and Abogee were gone. They’d left me a note saying I didn’t have to go to school. Mrs. Knutson was out somewhere too. She’d left me a pile of peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches, some wild-rice-and-sausage hotdish. The house was quiet. So quiet.

  I grabbed the sandwiches off the counter.

  I walked into school just as classes were breaking for lunch. All eyes were on me, like I was a rare butterfly impaled under glass. This time I wasn’t Chan the New Boy Who Is Also Asian. I was Chan the Kid Who Lost His Sister.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let me pass. I wanted to tell them death wasn’t catching. My feet, through force of habit, made their way to the gym.

  The guys looked at me like I was Jesus, or Lazarus, or Elvis after the resurrection. Take your pick.

  “Hi,” said ALL-PRO.

  “Hey, Chan,” said Leland. Everyone else was silent. Staring.

  “So I guess you’re not coming to practice, huh?” ALL-PRO said to me after lunch.

  I shook my head. “Are you?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t gone all week.” My perception of things had totally changed, the way a kaleidoscope does when you twist the knob. Football had once been the center of my universe. Now, with life and death intruding, I saw it for what it was: a colossal waste of time. It shouldn’t have ever mattered, but it had. So I was stupid and Abogee had been right all along.

  “You’re not actually thinking about going, are you?”

  ALL-PRO studied his Sambas. “I think it might help, you know. The team needs us. No use sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.”

  Everything was coming to a slow, rolling stop.

  “Young is dead and you’re thinking about playing football?” Gray spots began to dance before my eyes.

  “Chan, listen. I know she’s dead. We can’t do anything about it.” ALL-PRO’S hand, holding a carton of milk, trembled, and a few white drops spilled out. “So why can’t we finish what we started on the field? This means a lot to us, to the town.”

  “I can’t believe this! She’s not even cold in the ground and it’s just business as usual for you. I thought you loved her.”

  A vein throbbed in Mikko’s temple. His skin was so pale, I could see it clearly.

  “I did love her. More than you realize.” ALL-PRO’S voice, usually so low, was strained comically high. “So playing ball has always helped me deal with things. It might even keep me from hurting myself. Is that all right, Your Highness?”

  “Yeah, sure. Do whatever the hell you want, you shallow jerk.” I wheeled around and sprinted away, knocking people over like tenpins. Maybe it was a mistake to come back to school, but I didn’t know, for the life of me, where to go. So I went to Spanish.

  I was surprised to see Coach waiting outside the door when the last class ended. He was leaning easily against the lockers, Mr. Casual himself. I blinked.

  “How are you, son?”

  I shrugged.

  “Mind if I walk with you?”

  “Sure, whatever.” There was no way he was going to try to get me to come back to football.

  “I’m sorry about your sister. I didn’t know her too well—knew she was an outstanding math student—but I am very sorry.”

  “I am too,” I said. My stock answer. I mean, with everyone coming up to you and saying they’re sorry—when you’re beyond sorry—what are you supposed to say?

  “Do you have some time to talk?” he said, stopping, as the escaping kids streamed all around us.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “How does Helga’s Café sound?”

  “Don’t you have to go to practice?”

  “Kearny’s there. It’s not a problem.”

  At Helga’s I had a hot chocolate. Coach drank cups and cups of coffee. I could tell they hadn’t put enough grounds in it. It probably tasted weak and sour. You get good at gauging these things when you work at a convenience store.

  “So what do you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Coach said, lifting the chipped cup to his lips yet again. On the far wall an enormous fish was hanging, mouth open, like it was about to chomp on a fly. “I’d like to know how you’re doing, how your family’s doing.”

  “About as well as you’d expect.” I placed the hot chocolate in front of me like a barrier.

  “What was your sister like?”

  “She wasn’t someone you could describe in ten minutes.” The words were so rude, I wished immediately I could take them back. I sighed. “I’m sorry. She was the best, that’s all. It’s hard to talk about.”

  Coach looked me in the eye.

  “Chan, I just want you to know that I’m here for you. And the team is too.”

  I couldn’t look at him. So I looked at his hands, instead. They were tapping the coffee cup. The nails were square, clipped, perfectly clean.

  What was I doing here? Too much more of this and I was going to bawl like a baby. I didn’t want him to know how close I was to breaking. To distract myself, I started to blab. I blabbed about Young, about being a twin. About how hard it was to leave L.A. Once the words spilled out, they kept coming, like they had a life of their own. Before I knew it, I’d blabbed about what had happened in the locker room that cold, lonely day.

  When I looked up, Coach’s face scared me.

  “Who do you think jumped you?” he breathed.

  I sat up. I’d somehow expected Coach not to listen too closely.

  “I honestly don’t know.” It was true. I didn’t, really. Okay, maybe there was also some warped sense of loyalty in that answer, but what proof did I have?

  “Chan, you have to help me out. I don’t know what-all goes on in the locker room.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” I said. “What would you be able to do with some wild guess?”

  “Get to the bottom of this. I don’t want any boy—any boy—who engages in that kind of conduct to have the privilege of playing on the team. I mean it. I have to know.”

  I focused on my own fingers, nails bitten to the quick. I found myself wishing I’d left something to bite.

  “Don’t let me down on this one, son,” Coach said. His eyes were boring two holes into my skull. I would have liked to get up and run screaming from the table, but I was trapped. I tried to distract myself by concentrating on my breathing. No good. It was as if a huge vacuum cleaner had come in and sucked all the air out of Helga’s Café.

  “Okay, then,” Coach said, spreading out his two hands. “I’m just going to start naming names. It wasn’t Sanderson, was it?”

  I had an insane urge to laugh. Yeah, right.

  “Leland Farrell?”

  Coach ticked the names off his fingers. Like bullets. Pow-pow-pow!

  “I guess Beargrease is about all that’s left,” he said. “Is he the one?”


  I didn’t nod, or shake my head, or move in any way. It didn’t matter. It was like he could read my mind.

  He sighed. “Okay.”

  But then he looked down and saw he had one finger left. He’d missed one last guy.

  “Kreeger?” He sounded like he was going to choke.

  Don’t move, I told myself. Don’t let on.

  A little necessary roughness, huh?

  I shook my head.

  But I think Coach knew. Somehow he must have just known.

  There was no denying the disappointment on Coach’s face. His mouth opened, like that mounted fish, as if he were groping for some explanation, some way to set things right. Everyone knew we couldn’t win State without Rom.

  He reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. From somewhere, dripping coffee fell on a burner and hissed.

  “I’m going to take action on this immediately,” he said, his voice grim. “And in the meantime, if there’s anything you need, let me know.”

  His hand squeezed my shoulder.

  What would life be like if Coach were my abogee? We could talk, really talk, and do stuff together, and I wouldn’t always feel like I’d failed some mysterious test only Abogee knew the answers to. Lousy of me to think like that, huh?

  “And Chan, if—by any chance—you want to come to practice, the team’s waiting for you. But it’s your decision and of course we’ll respect it, whatever it is.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I know Mikko was thinking of going back. He kind of ticked me off.”

  Coach shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. But maybe he’ll be back, if he’s anything like his father. Old Rip, whenever he was mad, or sad, or whatever, he would just come and let it all out on the field. Some guys are like that.”

  “I guess,” I said. “All the fun’s sort of gone out of it for me.”

  “I understand, son. I do. I just want you to know that you’ve still got your place on the team if you decide you want it.”

  By the time I got home it was getting dark. I put on my sneakers and sweats and went outside. I had no idea where I was going, I just ran, let the feel of my body jolting over the tar take over everything.