The Way Home Looks Now

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  Nelson tightened his grip on his fork. “What if I have?”

  “The purpose of school is to learn, not to protest,” said Ba. “Those protestors have closed down universities, interrupted classes. All of them—and you—should be focused on your studies.” I thought Nelson should not be protesting the war for a different reason; last year, the National Guard opened fire on students protesting the war at Kent State. Four of them died.

  “That’s not the point,” said Nelson. “The war in Vietnam is wrong. The United States needs to get out.”

  Mom gave me a wide-eyed look, one that said, What are we going to do? Then she said, “Please, let’s not fight.”

  Ba and Nelson stared at each other, each daring the other to move first.

  “Not now,” pleaded Mom.

  Suddenly, I saw my chance. “Yeah, tomorrow morning would be much better for a fight. Can you argue tomorrow?”

  I was taking a chance, being a wise guy, but it worked. Mom smiled, and Ba and Nelson each took a deep breath. I felt like a hero. But then Ba came out of his corner, swinging again.

  “You know, when I was your age, I loved jazz. I listened to it all the time. But then my father, your ye ye, told me to stop. It was becoming too much,” said Ba. He snapped his fingers. “All my records—Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington—gone, the next day.”

  It was hard to imagine my father loving something as wild and unpredictable as jazz. But the point of his story was clear. We were to obey him, no matter what. My father fully believed in the five primary relationships taught by Confucianism: ruler–subject; parent–child; husband–wife; older sibling–younger sibling; friend–friend. Fulfilling these relationships properly, he said, was what kept society running properly. In all the relationships, except friendship, there was someone in charge and someone who was not. Somehow, I always managed to come out on the bottom.

  “It’s not the same,” said Nelson, more to himself than to Ba. “Not the same. We all have an obligation to do what we think is right. To do what we can to make the world a better place.”

  “A better place,” repeated Ba. He snorted slightly into his tea and shook his head.

  “Yeah, a better place,” said Nelson. He glanced around the room as if looking for an idea. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking that after college, I’ll join the Peace Corps.”

  “Huh. You want to live with starvation and dirty water? Go back to China,” said Ba. We had been to Taiwan once, when I was younger, but none of us kids had ever been to the mainland, not the place my father meant when he said China with equal parts bitterness and longing. Still, I wasn’t going to be the one to point out that you can’t go back to a place you’ve never been. “You’re going to get your PhD after you graduate. Or go to medical school.”

  “We’ll see,” said Nelson.

  “You’re not turning into one of those lazy, good-for-nothings I see on the evening news,” said Ba. “No job, no skills. They are not making the world a better place. Their parents must be dying of shame.” While most people use “dying of shame” as an expression, my father made it sound like an actual fatal condition.

  Nelson folded his hands together so that his two index fingers stood straight up, like a church steeple, while the rest of his fingers curled tight and low. He pushed the two tall fingers against his lips.

  “Take that button off,” said Ba, dabbing his mouth on a napkin and getting up from the table. He was getting ready for work. “I have not worked this hard so my son, my number one son, can go to another country and sleep on a dirt floor. Do you hear me? Stay away from those protests.”

  Nelson looked at my father, knowing what he was expected to say, even when it was so clear that he wanted something different. He glanced at me, and then said, “Yes, Ba,” as he undid the button and folded it into his hand. His voice twisted, but it did not break.

  That afternoon, Nelson began packing to go back to school. I watched him fold his jean jacket and put it in his duffel bag. I wanted a jacket like that. Cool, kind of tough.

  I remember thinking Nelson must have been really glad to be going back to school. I wondered what he did with the button.

  “So,” I said. “Do you really want to join the Peace Corps?” I had never heard him mention that idea before.

  Nelson raised one shoulder and let it drop. “Let’s say it’s a possibility.”

  “If you don’t stay in school, you might get drafted,” I said. As long as he stayed in school, Nelson could get a deferment, which meant that he couldn’t be drafted to fight in Vietnam.

  “But that’s not the point. I think the war is wrong, and it’s my job to speak up about it, whether or not I have something to gain. It’s my duty—and yours—as a member of society.”

  Nelson talked to me like a grown-up, which I really liked. But I wasn’t sure I understood what he was talking about. What society did I belong to? I nodded, like I understood. But I must have still looked confused, because Nelson looked at me and laughed.

  “Hey,” said Nelson. “Let’s get Mom to make us some shrimp chips.”

  Shrimp chips—that was something I understood.

  Shrimp chips are sort of like potato chips—crispy and fried. Ba didn’t like them. He said they were too greasy and unhealthy, so we only made them when he was at work. Mom said she would make some, and put oil in a pan to heat up. Then, while we were waiting, she pulled out a booklet with photographs.

  “Where’d you find that?” asked Nelson.

  “What’s that?” I asked at the same time.

  “It has pictures of all the incoming freshmen, with their names, hometowns, and stuff,” Nelson explained. “It’s called a face book. This was the face book for my year.”

  “Nelson left it out, where anyone could come along and look in it,” said Mom, in a singsong voice. In the Before, there were times when Mom was more like us.

  “Yeah, well, I won’t make that mistake again,” said Nelson.

  “Is there anyone you like?” asked Mom, holding it slightly out of reach.

  Nelson took too long to answer. “Um … not really.”

  “You do! You do!” teased Mom. She picked up the book and flipped through it. “What’s her name?”

  “Mom …”

  “Tell me, or I’ll just read every girl’s name in this book. Alicia Abbott? Catherine Ackerman? Frances Aldridge?” Mom peered at Frances Aldridge, whose thick eyebrows came together in an angry V. “Mmmm … I take back that last one. Not Frances Aldridge.”

  “Marjorie Stallings,” said Nelson, giving in.

  Mom flipped through the book until she reached the S’s. She ran her finger down the page. “Oh, Nelson,” she said. “She’s very pretty. And smart. She looks like a smart girl, don’t you think, Peter?”

  The girl in the picture had long straight hair that curled up at the end. She was looking up and smiling, like she saw something funny on the ceiling. “She’s not completely stupid looking,” I offered.

  “She actually doesn’t live far from here,” said Nelson, ignoring my comment. “I’d been meaning to call her, but … it might cut into my studying.” He tried to sound like he was joking, but I could tell he was still thinking of his argument with Ba.

  “You should ask her out,” said Mom. “Or do the girls do all the asking these days, with women’s liberation?”

  “The girls at school, the ones who are into women’s lib, you can still ask them out,” said Nelson.

  “Tell Marjorie that I support the Equal Rights Amendment,” said Mom. “I don’t see what’s so controversial about saying women and men should be treated equally.”

  “So if the amendment passed, would it be illegal to hold a door open for a woman?” I asked Mom. It would be nice to have that excuse, at least for the more annoying girls at school.

  Mom turned to me. “Peter.” Mom’s voice was soft but stern. “This isn’t about manners, and I do expect you to have manners.”

  “Okay,” I said quickly. I hadn�
�t meant for the conversation to get so serious. Usually Ba was the one who turned conversations into lectures about doing well in school or current events. Elaine wandered into the kitchen. She had a book from the library, A Child’s Book of Birds. “Listen,” she said. “What is the only bird that can fly backward?”

  Mom squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to think. “A robin?”

  “Hummingbirds,” said Nelson gently, turning away from the window and tapping Elaine on the nose. “Hummingbirds fly backward. They can also fly sideways and even upside-down.”

  Elaine turned the page. “Cor-rect!”

  For one disloyal moment, I thought about what it would be like without Ba, just the four of us. We wouldn’t fight. I wouldn’t get extra homework. We would make jokes and eat shrimp chips.

  Then I pushed the thought away.

  “I want to see a hummingbird,” said Elaine. “I don’t care what kind. I don’t have any on my life list.” Elaine kept a list of all the birds she had ever seen.

  “You will,” said Nelson. “When you’re older, you’ll travel and see lots of birds. You’re so smart to start when you’re young. You’ll have a huge life list when you grow up.”

  Mom leaned over the stove, checking the wok filled partway with oil. She put the handle of a wooden spoon in the pan of oil and checked for bubbles.

  Mom opened the box of shrimp chips and poured some in her hand. They were hard, glassy little pieces, but once they hit the oil, they bubbled and bloomed. Mom carefully spooned them onto a paper towel and motioned for us to take one.

  “You first, Mom,” said Nelson. Mom picked up one of them and ate it, closing her eyes.

  I took one, too. I liked to let it rest on my tongue so I could feel the little bubbles pop and stick to my tongue.

  “Any girl who goes out with you is a lucky girl,” said Mom, looking at Nelson. Nelson had gotten taller than Mom, so she had to look up a little. “Call her,” Mom urged. “Your father hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be a young man.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Nelson, blushing a little. And then Mom laughed again. Mom had been born in China, but she had come to the United States when she was a baby. I had always thought that was why she laughed more easily than Ba, who did not come to the States until he had finished college.

  I have this picture in my head of my mom in the kitchen, tilting her head up as she laughed. Ba always said he wanted to marry her the minute he heard her laugh, and for a moment, I understood why Nelson wanted to talk to girls.

  Nelson called Marjorie, and they ended up making plans to go out to a movie after dinner. Meanwhile, my best friend, Chris, stopped by and said he wanted to get a game together at Folger’s Lot. We didn’t actually know anyone named Folger, but that’s what we’d called the lot for as long as I could remember, and Nelson before me.

  “Sounds good to me,” I said, grabbing my glove. Me and Chris, we would play baseball every day of the summer if you let us.

  “Hey, Nelson, you should come with us,” said Chris. He tried to say it like he didn’t care, but we all knew that if Nelson came and played, we’d beat just about anyone.

  “Well …” Nelson scratched his head. “I’ve got this date …”

  “Oh, he doesn’t want to get all messed up for his date with a girl,” I said.

  Chris joined in. “Oh, no kisses for sweaty, dirty Nelson,” he sang in a high voice. He made loud smacking noises. We laughed like crazy.

  Nelson picked up a pen and threw it at me. “All right, all right. Just for a little bit.”

  “Can I come, too?” begged Laney. She always wanted to stick her nose in where it didn’t belong.

  “No,” I told her. “There won’t be any girls there.”

  When the other kids heard that Nelson was coming to play, even for just a little bit, they all came down to the lot. Nelson brought his lucky bat, a Louisville Slugger with red tape on the handle. He’d hit fifty-two home runs with that bat. Out-of-the-park home runs at the school where the fields were fenced in. Lost-in-the-woods home runs here at the lot. Barn burners at the plate, catcher versus runner. He’d notched them all on that bat.

  We had enough kids that we could play full sided, instead of calling right field out or having ghost runners. It was a really beautiful night—it wasn’t your typical end-of-summer night, when it’s so hot the air shimmers over the road. A tiny cool breeze fanned us in the outfield. While we waited for our turn at bat, we watched the clouds glow purple and blue, edged in orange.

  When it was time for Nelson’s at bat, we let the other team have an extra outfielder. They also put up their best pitcher, Nick, who was a lefty and had had an early growth spurt to boot. Nelson fouled off the first pitch. The next pitch was way on the outside.

  Donny Sherman, who was playing catcher, called a strike.

  Nelson looked at Donny. “You must be joking.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em,” responded Donny.

  He was 0–2, but Nelson didn’t look nervous. Nick went into his windup, and the next thing I heard was a dull pop. The ball sailed out past the outfield and into the trees. A shooting star.

  For a second, everyone was quiet, just watching the ball soar away from the field. Then everyone began whooping and cheering. Nelson trotted around the bases, trying not to look too pleased with himself. When he reached home, Donny took off his mask and shook Nelson’s hand.

  Nelson picked up his bat, jogged over to our side, and handed it to me. “Gotta go. Can’t keep a girl waiting.”

  “Come on, Nelson, just a little longer,” I said. “It’s not even hot. You’re not getting sweaty.” How could a girl even compare to a decent ball game? Girls couldn’t even play ball, as far as I could tell. A cool breeze fanned the field. It looked like it might rain. I didn’t want to lose that feeling, like everything I could ever want was right here. Not yet.

  Nelson laughed and shook his head. “I’ll stay home tomorrow night, play a whole game with you guys. Maybe we can even work on that palmball,” he promised. When I scowled at him, he said, “One day you’ll understand.”

  When I think about this moment, I wonder what would have happened if I had tried harder to get him to stay, for just a little longer. One more at bat, one more inning, one more anything. If I had just changed my grip ever so slightly, and let things spin differently. Instead, I went on playing, believing him.

  This is the last moment I remember in the Before: seeing red and blue lights reflecting on my walls late that night. The lights woke me up, and for a moment I just lay in bed, half-awake, thinking they looked kind of pretty in the dark.

  Red.

  Blue.

  Red.

  Blue.

  My brain didn’t process any more than that, not until I heard something that sounded like an animal caught in a trap, a sound that wasn’t human. It started as a high-pitched squeal and slowly opened to a full-throated, raw howl.

  I didn’t see it coming. I went down looking.

  THEY TELL US HE DIDN’T SUFFER. NELSON DIED INSTANTLY. Meadowbrook Road had gotten slick from the rain when Nelson lost control of the car and hit a tree. One police officer said that maybe Nelson had swerved to avoid hitting an animal that had darted into the road.

  My father clenched his fists when he heard that. His knuckles turned white and the veins in his hands bulged. “I always told Nelson, the life of a person is more important than the life of an animal,” he said.

  I wonder if Nelson thought about that—that he was disobeying Ba.

  I hope what they said is true about the suffering, that he did not suffer at all. Maybe Nelson was changing stations on the radio, or thinking about that girl, Marjorie Stallings, since he had just dropped her off. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think maybe we are suffering more because Nelson didn’t suffer at all, and there’s just a certain amount of pain that has to be endured. I’m okay with that. I’m okay with carrying that for Nelson, though I wonder if we will ever be done.

 
Sometimes I have this dream that I’m in the car with Nelson, and on the way home, I say, “Hey, Nelson, you should slow down here.” And Nelson says okay, and we drive all the way down Meadowbrook Road with no problem. But I always wake up before we make it home, and then I have to lie in bed, not moving, while my brain tells the rest of me that it’s only a dream.

  IN BASEBALL, THERE ARE THE RULES THAT EVERYONE knows, and the rules that you have to figure out for yourself. For example, the first rule every kid learns in baseball is it’s three strikes and you’re out. Then there are rules you have to figure out—like if you strike out, you don’t cry on your way back to the dugout, even if you just got the third out and your team’s behind. You hold your head high, walk like a man, and act like you’re gonna hit it out of the park on your next turn. If you don’t, you’ll get picked last for the next game.

  There are rules when people die, too. Some of them everyone knows, and some you have to figure out for yourself.

  On the morning of Nelson’s funeral, I remember waking up and finding Liao Ai Yi holding my shirt.

  It was strange to see Auntie Liao in my bedroom; she usually stayed in the kitchen with Mom. She held up a small black fabric rectangle, about three inches long and an inch high, and two tiny safety pins.

  “Normally you wear a black armband for mourning. But when I talked to your father, he was concerned that people would think you were protesting the war. So, we decided you should wear something on your shirt.” She pinned the black fabric to my shirt pocket.

  “You wear it every day,” said Auntie Liao. “And you must not wear red. Red is the Chinese color for happiness, you know? You wear only dark colors, and no red.”

  I never wanted to wear red again.

  We were getting ready to go to the funeral when the phone rang. We were in the front hall, dark suits and dresses. Mom and Elaine each pinned a white scrap of cloth in their hair. We had our shoes on—we were that close to leaving. Ba answered the phone.