We headed west along Hastings Street, stopping to look in store windows and long for the things inside. I was hoping that Kellie Rae would be around—maybe she would give us a dime for a Popsicle—but I didn’t see her. It was a long walk, and some of it was uphill, so by the time we got to the big library we were hot and thirsty. Nancy made a beeline for the water fountain. We both drank so much our bellies sloshed as we walked into the children’s section.
The librarian looked up as we entered. She is a friendly librarian. She never shushes anyone unless they are being really noisy, and she lets kids lie on the floor reading comics for as long as they want. Nancy pulled out some of the puzzles and blocks they kept for little kids. She was pretty good at that sort of thing.
I went to my favorite section—nature books. I’d read just about every book they had about my three favorite animals—spiders, jellyfish and eagles. I had also read all the books about ferns and some about cacti, which were my favorite plants. I scanned the spines of the books, trailing my fingers along them, almost believing that the book I wanted might feel magically warm under my touch. But then I spotted what I was looking for—a nice fat book about pandas. I lugged it back to the soft rug where Nancy was building a tower of blocks, opened it in my lap and started to read.
It didn’t take long for me to decide that pandas were now on my list of favorite animals. They have tiny babies and eat nothing but bamboo. They have thumbs. In Chinese, their name means “bear cat.” I decided I liked them even more than jellyfish. In fact, they were so interesting and cute, I decided I liked them more than most people!
I sat there studying the book until the librarian told us the library was closing. I didn’t have a library card. Mom was afraid I would lose books and she would have to pay for them. She was right in a way. I lost things all the time. Still, I was sure sad I couldn’t borrow that panda book.
On the way home, we saw Kentucky Jack on Hastings Street. He had two empty bottles, one in each hand, and was swaying like a thin tree in a breeze. I figured he was about to plop over, so Nancy and I took the bottles out of his hands and gave him a little shove backward to where there was a wall for him to lean on.
“Sit down, Jack,” I said. He slid down the wall and sat on the sidewalk. Real obedient Jack was, when he was drunk.
I hated to leave him like that. I knew he would throw up, and then he would smell real bad for days until one of the Salvation Army people managed to lure him into the shelter for a shower and clean clothes. But it was getting late and I was hungry. And anyway, now that Nancy and I had an empty bottle each, we could share a licorice whip. We walked along Hastings to the liquor store, where we stood outside making sad eyes at the clerk until he came out with two coins for our bottles. Then we ran around to Mr. Huang’s and bought the licorice. We ate it from both ends until we were nearly kissing, and then I let Nancy have the last inch.
When I got home I could tell it was going to be a no-supper night. Mom was asleep on the couch, smelling sweet and like medicine. I made myself some toast and drank the last of the milk before going back to check on her. She opened her eyes as I sat down beside her.
“Scheherazade,” she mumbled.
Four
Heather Bird Song
Mom is an alcoholic. She explained it all to me when I was little—how she’s doing the steps and going to meetings and all. Once in a while she “slips,” which I always want to smile about even though I know it’s wrong. It’s just that when Mom says she slipped, I always imagine her slipping on a banana peel or something and landing in a glass of wine. To be honest, I think if I ever saw someone slip on a banana peel, I wouldn’t laugh. It’s not polite to laugh when people hurt themselves. Miss Bickerstaff says sometimes people laugh when they’re scared because that’s how they deal with things. Maybe that’s me.
Mom says she tries not to slip, but sometimes she can’t help it. She’ll be on her way home from work, and somebody she knows from the neighborhood will say, Birdy! What’s goin’ on? How’s it hanging? Why dontcha come have a drink with us? Even though she’s told everyone that she doesn’t drink anymore, and even though she knows that with her it’s never just one drink, she goes into the bar and comes out two or three hours later, stumbling and tripping back to our apartment, where she falls asleep on the sofa and wakes up with a headache.
Mostly when slips happen, it’s not too scary. The good thing about Mom’s slips is that once she’s had one, she never has another one for months and months. Once we went a whole year. The bad thing about Mom’s slips is that sometimes she doesn’t come home until late, or she falls asleep before she makes supper and then she cries when she wakes up. I’d already seen Miss Bickerstaff cry that day, so I was not looking forward to seeing Mom cry too. But what could I do? I just sat there and waited.
“Scheherazade,” she said again, tears coming up in her eyes. “I have some news.”
I was surprised at first, until I remembered what had happened at school. “I know,” I said. “Miss Bickerstaff’s brother died in the war. It’s real sad.”
“No, honey, it’s not that.” She sat up on the sofa and rubbed her eyes, which looked sore and puffy. “What time is it?”
I looked at the clock. “It’s eight thirty,” I said. “What’s the news?”
Mom looked at me real deep and long. She put her hand on my cheek, and I started to feel scared, like what she was about to tell me was going to be just awful.
“Journey,” she said, “your dad’s come back.”
My mouth opened. It was as if someone had pulled down on my lower jaw and left it hanging there like a mailbox waiting for a letter.
“What?” I finally said.
“I saw him on Hastings Street. We had a couple of drinks together. He asked about you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Obviously I knew I had a father, because everyone does, even cockroaches, but he was far away from the real part of my life and always had been. I couldn’t quite believe there was a man walking around somewhere near Hastings Street who was actually my real live father. Mom never talked about him and I had learned not to ask about him, so it was almost like that part of me just didn’t exist. When people asked me about my father, I simply said, I don’t have one and hoped that answer would shut them up. Now I was the one left speechless.
“Where has he been?” I finally managed.
“He was down in California for a while. Then he got busted and went to jail, I guess. Now he’s out.”
“What did he get busted for?”
“Protesting the war probably, or maybe…”
“What?”
“Honey, he was into a few things. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Drugs?” I said. I know more about drugs than Mom thinks I do. She looked kind of sad.
“Maybe. I don’t really know.”
It only took a few seconds for me to realize that I didn’t care what my father was into or what he had done to go to jail or why he had waited so long to come back. I wanted to meet him. It was like a cover had been taken off a hole in me that I didn’t know was there—a dad-shaped hole. I felt I was teetering on the edge of that hole and that if my father didn’t jump down to catch me, I would fall all the way to the bottom and be crushed. But then I wondered if he was the kind of man who could catch me. Or would he just let me fall? He barely knew me, after all. We were practically strangers.
And he left me once. He left me and Mom and never came back. Until now. I wanted to meet him, but I wasn’t sure if I would hug him or punch him.
What could I do? I started to cry. At least it was a change from Mom crying.
Mom held me and rocked me, and eventually I felt a bit better.
“Is he an Arab?” I asked.
Mom looked surprised. “No, he’s not an Arab. Why do you ask?”
“Why do you sometimes call me Scheherazade then? Miss Bickerstaff says that’s from the Arabian Nights.”
Mom smiled. “When you
were a baby, I had an embroidered blanket someone bought in Baghdad. I wrapped you in it and used it as a sling. I took you everywhere in that sling. Jazz clubs, poetry readings, parties. People called you Princess Scheherazade.”
“But why do I have black hair and dark eyes?”
“Well, your father is dark. You get it from him.” She said it all matter-of-factly. As if she hadn’t just told me a great and terrible secret, a shivery truth about myself, as if she hadn’t handed me a puzzle piece I had been hunting down for as long as I could remember.
“Why is he dark, Mom?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
“I suppose because he’s Cuban.”
“So what is his last name?”
Mom rubbed her eyes again. “Chaparro,” she said. She had to repeat it a couple of times before I got it right. But finally I was able to pronounce what should have been my name.
“Chaparro,” I said.
And there it was. Just like that. A new name and a new heritage. A whole new family of black curls and brown eyes and skin that tans golden brown in the summer and never freckles. Some sort of story too, I bet, like what we talk about in school. A crowded boat, maybe. A few dollars sewn into the lining of a patched coat. A trip across the ocean to an unknown destination.
Just like those pandas.
By the time I tucked Mom into bed it was after nine o’clock. Of course, I should have gone to bed too, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I wanted to find out more about my father and about Cuba, my name, my family, everything. But I couldn’t leave the house, and anyway, the library was closed. All I had was what was already in our apartment, and that probably wasn’t going to be much help, but it was a start.
First I tried the phone book. There was one Chaparro listed. It was too late to call. That wouldn’t be polite. But I thought I could maybe call in the morning. After the phone book I didn’t really know where to look. Then I remembered the Children’s Encyclopedia Omnibus that Mom had gotten for me with coupons from cans of corn.
I looked up Cuba and Cuban, and that got me to Havana. And that led to cigar and Spain, Spanish and conquistador.
It was nearly eleven when I put the book away. I was tired and confused, which made a change from going to bed just plain tired. I had trouble getting to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad and how close he was. Twice I got up and looked out the window to the street below our apartment. There were always people wandering here and there at night on the Eastside. Some of them looked unfamiliar to me. Was one of them my dad? How would I even recognize him?
Finally I fell asleep. In the morning the doorbell woke me up. I lay in bed wondering who it could be until Mom came in, looking pale and fragile.
“Journey,” she said. “Your dad is here.”
Five
Tom Chaparro
He was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, when I finally got up the nerve to meet him.
I couldn’t get out of bed for about ten minutes after Mom told me he was there. It was like one of those times when you wake up in the middle of the night and have to go to the bathroom, but it’s dark and there’s a weird noise outside and the shadows on the walls look like creepy hands reaching out to grab you. I really wanted to see him—I needed to—but I couldn’t move. I pulled the covers up to my earlobes and just lay there, scared.
Then I realized I did need to go to the bathroom, and that just made things worse. I wriggled and crossed my legs a bit, but finally I threw off the covers, jumped out of bed and ran down the hall and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
“Journey?” I heard Mom call from the hallway. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said as I finished my business. Then I took my time washing my hands before opening the door a crack and peeking into the hallway. When I found it clear, I bolted back into my room and slammed that door too.
“Journey?” I could hear she was losing patience. “Are you coming out?”
“I’m getting dressed,” I said.
Then I didn’t know what to wear! Me! I don’t care about clothes. But I couldn’t decide between the overalls with the patches on the knees or the faded flowery dress that was a hand-me-down from some cousin up north. It was a little short, but I had a pair of tights that only had a hole on the bottom of one foot, so he wouldn’t see it. But I wasn’t sure whether the green tights went with the pink-and-blue dress. So finally I decided on the overalls.
But then I couldn’t decide on a shirt! I had a red one with white stripes, but the white was starting to look pretty gray and the red was starting to look kind of brown. I also had a T-shirt that said Keep on Truckin’, but I had no idea what that meant and was worried that if my dad asked me about the shirt, he’d think I was dumb for not knowing. Also, I thought Keep on Truckin’ might mean something rude. Finally I thought of the tie-dyed shirts we had made at school. I didn’t like mine very much, because a splotch right over my belly button looked like a corncob, and the kids at school made fun of me. But no one would see the corncob under the overalls, so I decided to try it.
My father’s coffee cup was actually empty when I went into the kitchen. He was sitting there looking at me, and I looked at him and hoped so hard that he would say something, because Mom was standing by the fridge, chewing on her thumbnail.
“So,” he said at last, glancing down at the newspaper. “Did you hear about these pandas?”
He took me for ice cream. Yes, ice cream, before I’d even had breakfast. It was pretty cold outside, so we ate our ice cream in the Woodwards store. A couple of clerks scowled at us, but I just scowled right back, which made my father laugh.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about making him laugh. Normally I like making people laugh. I’m not the class clown or anything, but sometimes I say things that Miss Bickerstaff says are profound but that make all my classmates laugh. I tried to think of something like that to say to my father, to see if he would laugh or think it was profound. But all I could think of was Where have you been? and Why did you leave us? and Why are you wearing an earring, like a pirate? I didn’t think any of those were funny or profound. Actually, I wasn’t sure what profound meant. Then it popped into my head that if I wanted to, which I really didn’t, I could ask my father, because he was right there walking next to me.
My father—my father. I was out having ice cream with my father. It was like a movie. I expected one of us to start singing and dancing at any moment. That would have turned some heads in Woodwards.
He was real handsome—tall and dark, with a big mustache—and I hoped I might run into somebody I knew so they would be curious about us. I wanted to show him off. But then again, I thought I might feel strange if someone I knew just came up and said, Who’s this guy? Like, wouldn’t that make it kind of obvious that my dad had been gone all this time? Then I worried about running into Kentucky Jack, with him smelling of barf and everything. Or Contrary Gary, who would argue with anything you said, even if it was the time of day.
Or what about Nancy, who sometimes asked strangers to read candy-bar wrappers for her and liked to try on men’s shoes? She was my best friend, but sometimes she could be as weird as a three-eyed teddy bear. What would my dad think of me for having such crazy friends? I didn’t want my friends to think about where my dad had been all these years, and I didn’t want my dad to think I had strange friends. I was pretty confused.
Then we went into the menswear department. There were these long mirrors along one wall. As my dad and I walked toward them, I could see us both together, and it hit me. I looked exactly like him. Except for the mustache.
We also walked alike, both holding our ice cream in our right hand with our left hand in our pocket. I was wearing overalls and a tie-dyed shirt, and my dad was wearing jeans and a tie-dyed shirt. We both even had smears of chocolate ice cream on our chins, which we rubbed off in the same way, with the bony part of the back of our wrist. Only when I tried to do it, I just made the s
mear worse, spreading it up my cheek and over my nose.
My dad looked down at me and smiled, popping the last of his ice-cream cone into his mouth. “Here, kid, let me,” he said. He pulled a red bandanna from his pocket, bent down and wiped my face. “Spit,” he said when the ice cream wouldn’t come off. I spit on the handkerchief and he wiped some more, leaning back to examine me.
I hoped I didn’t look as weird as I felt.
“You look like my mother a little,” he said. “Only less disappointed.”
That made us both laugh.
Right then I started thinking of him as “Dad,” not “my dad.” I don’t know why that made such a difference, but it did. There we were, just strolling around, looking at stuff. We talked about school and about California and about the Eastside. We didn’t talk about jail or about Mom. And we talked about the pandas. “What did it say in the paper about them?” I asked.
“The usual American bu…uh, nonsense,” Dad said. “There was some Chinese involvement in some incident in North Vietnam. You know about the war, right?”
“My teacher’s brother just died there,” I said.
“Really?” Dad said. Then he stopped and just stared at some striped turtleneck sweaters for a few seconds. I could tell he wasn’t really looking at the sweaters, though, because he was frowning and looked sad. They were nice sweaters, and cheap too. “This war is terrible, just terrible,” he finally said.
“What does it have to do with the pandas?” I asked.
“China might have done something bad in the war. And so the American president has to pretend he’s mad at China. So now he’s saying angry stuff to China, and then China says, You know what? Scr… I mean, forget you. You can’t have those pandas after all. So now the Chinese are saying they’re going to take the pandas back.”
Pandas on the Eastside Page 2
