The Way Home Looks Now

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  I can see from Sean’s expression that I might as well be wearing a frilly apron and twirling around the kitchen like Julia Child.

  “She needed them for school,” I mumble. “I just turned on the oven, mostly.”

  Sean nods slowly. The oven timer dings. “Do you want a cupcake?” offers Elaine. “They’re chocolate.” Sean smiles and starts to take a seat at the table.

  “I won’t even charge you the full price,” adds Elaine.

  “Charge me?” Sean looks startled.

  “This is for education,” says Elaine with great dignity. “I’m going to charge a quarter a piece at school. I’m going to the bird house at the zoo to see the kingfisher and a tanager.” She rips off a piece of waxed paper and lines the bottom of a shoe box I found for her, making neat little folded corners. Mom taught her that.

  “Tell you what,” says Sean. “Let me try a bite for free, and if I like it, I’ll give you a dime.”

  “What if you don’t like it?” asks Elaine. She puts her hands on top of the box.

  “If I don’t like it, then you probably shouldn’t be selling them,” says Sean. He has a point. Sean has what some people might call a healthy appetite. Even though he and I are close to the same height, Sean probably outweighs me by a good twenty or thirty pounds.

  Elaine reluctantly hands over one cupcake, and Sean makes a big deal out of sniffing the cupcake first, and then taking a small bite and chewing it very precisely. Then he swallows, digs into his pocket, and pulls out a dime.

  “Yay!” says Elaine. She does a funny little dance. Now she reminds me of the old Elaine. “They’re good! Peter, do you want one for helping me?”

  “Sure,” I say. Elaine gives me a cupcake, and then carefully drops Sean’s dime into her shirt pocket.

  When I watch her pocket the money, though, I realize that something is missing.

  “You’re not wearing your black band,” I say. The words come out before my brain can even process them.

  Her hand flies up and touches the spot where the strip is supposed to go. I can tell that she isn’t even looking for it; she already knows it isn’t there. She’s trying to cover up the spot.

  Elaine mumbles something.

  “What did you say?”

  “Ba said we could take it off.” She says the words so softly they seem to float out of her mouth.

  “He said could. That doesn’t mean have to.” That day, when Ba said we didn’t have to wear the black bands anymore, I had looked at Elaine, and she had looked at me, and neither one of us had moved to take them off. I thought we had understood each other.

  Sean is eating his cupcake without looking at either one of us. I wonder how crazy I sound. I can hear a TV commercial coming from the living room; Mom can probably hear us, too. Ba always tells us to be careful of the face we show to the world, that family things stayed within the family. Now I know why he says those things, but I can’t stop myself.

  “So, you just stopped wearing it? Just like that?” My words snap in the air, even as I lower my voice.

  “Peter,” Elaine pleads. “Don’t be mad.”

  I push back my chair from the table. “You know what? Do whatever you want. I was done helping you, anyway.”

  I walk out into the backyard and try to act like I know what I am doing out here. I grab a branch that has fallen in the yard and take a couple of swings with it, pretending to clobber some unseen ball heading my way.

  “She’s just a kid,” says Sean, who has followed me outside.

  “She still should have …” I say. I swing the branch harder and search for the right words. “I mean, she should have known.” I’m not making any sense; I’m not sure what Elaine should have known.

  “When I was younger, I used to take off my scapular when no one was looking because it itched me.” Sean reaches into his shirt and pulls out something that looks like two tags on a long piece of elastic. “I wasn’t thinking about what I was supposed to be doing, about God or anything. I just wanted to be comfortable. Maybe it’s something like that?”

  “The band wasn’t next to her skin,” I say. Still, I appreciate that Sean is trying to help.

  Swinging the branch feels good. If I swing fast enough, I can hear a little zinging noise as the little branches cut through the air.

  “So, you want to go over and play some ball?” Sean pantomimes a throw. “The guys want to get in some practice before tryouts.”

  Now here is the truth. I had been a little relieved when Elaine said I couldn’t go. The thought of playing baseball, even just sandlot ball, scares me a little. It is too close to Nelson, too close without him being there. But this isn’t anything I can explain to anyone.

  At the same time, though, I miss it. It doesn’t seem like spring without baseball. The ball fields look so pretty when the grass comes out. I remember how good it feels to stand with the other kids and chant to the batter, urging him on:

  G-double-o-D E-Y-E, good eye! Good eye!

  Way to watch! Way to watch!

  Way to watch that ball go by!

  It is all so dazzling and loud. It’s like looking at the sun, though—if you look too long, your eyes hurt.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not.”

  “You know, some of the other guys are saying …” Sean stops.

  “What?”

  “I dunno. You don’t like baseball anymore.”

  “Let me guess who said this. Chris.” Chris goes to church with Sean. He used to joke about Sean and how much he ate, but now he probably jokes about me.

  “They didn’t say it in a mean way. Chris was just saying you’re not playing ball at recess or anything.” Some of the guys bring their gloves and bats to school so we can play at recess. That was something I did last year.

  I take the branch and crack it over my knee, snapping it in two. It kind of hurts and feels good at the same time. “I don’t care.”

  “I’ll probably go to tryouts.” Sean rubs the back of his neck. “My old man really wants me to play, on a team, I mean.”

  “Well.” It’s so easy for him to talk about playing ball. A pang of jealousy makes my chest ache. “Good luck.”

  “You should come,” says Sean. “We could try out together.”

  The harder Sean tries to convince me, the louder the no gets in my head.

  “I don’t know. I think I’ve outgrown that now,” I say, sticking my chin out a little. “It’s kind of for babies.”

  It really kills me to say that.

  Sean puts his hands in his pockets. “Okay, yeah, see you.” He turns to go.

  I wonder if Sean will come back, or if he will be like the others.

  A FEW DAYS LATER, WHILE I AM CHECKING THE MAIL, I find a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Chen Lee, the parents of Peter Lee. It is from my school. They must have gotten Ba’s name from the school records because most people call him John.

  If teachers at school want to send a note home, they just hand it to the kid in a plain white envelope. If it is something official from the school, it has to be bad. Your-kid-is-failing bad.

  I saw this TV show where the guy needed to open a letter without anyone knowing that he had done it. He held the envelope over a steaming kettle until the steam had warmed up the glue on the envelope and the flap popped open.

  What they didn’t show on TV was that the water makes the envelope all wrinkly. I hope that Ba will not notice.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lee,

  I am Melanie Rowe, Peter’s social studies teacher. With the permission of our principal, Mrs. Wright, I am starting an after-school peer group for students who need a secure, confidential environment to discuss any issue that is troubling them. I would like to recommend Peter for this group. There is no charge for this service, and I think Peter might benefit. Please contact me to discuss this further.

  Sincerely,

  Melanie Rowe

  Highcliff Junior High

  I read the letter a couple of times and then put it on the co
unter, resisting the urge to crumple it. Why can’t Ms. Rowe just leave me alone? I don’t need to talk to anyone in a “secure, confidential environment.” That’s for people like Ginnie Clark, who cries a lot, and Kenny Higgins, who always, always gets picked last in gym.

  I look at the rest of the mail. There is a newspaper bill and a postcard from the dentist, reminding us it is time for a six-month checkup. I set the bill to the side and pick up the postcard, which has a picture of a smiling dentist on the front. The postcard will have to do. I leave the letter on the counter.

  “Look, Mom,” I say, bringing her the postcard. “A note from the dentist.”

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  I try harder. “You need to make an appointment, for me and Elaine.”

  Mom picks up the postcard, glances at it, and sets it down. “Maybe later.”

  In the Before, Mom would pick us up from school early, and take us out to lunch before our appointments. She said she felt so lucky to have healthy children. Three healthy children.

  I stand there, trying to think of something else to say, when I hear the sound of a key in the lock. Ba is home early!

  I run into the kitchen, and add some cold water to the kettle so it will stop steaming. Elaine walks in. “What are you doing?”

  “None of your business.” This is actually the first conversation we’ve had since we made cupcakes.

  I hear the door open and close, and then the sound of Ba groaning slightly while he takes off his shoes. I pick up the letter and the envelope, hesitating.

  “What is that?’ asks Elaine.

  I shake my head slightly, fold the paper in thirds, and stick it in my back pocket. I’ve decided: No one is going to find out about the letter.

  “Shhh.” I put my fingers to my lips.

  Elaine looks at me, her mouth slightly open. Then Ba walks in.

  Elaine is staring at my back pocket. All she has to do is say, “Peter has something in his pocket,” and I am in deep, deep trouble. And she just might, after the business I gave her about the black band.

  “What are you doing in here? I hope you are not spoiling your dinner,” says Ba.

  “I just wanted Peter …” begins Elaine.

  Oh no. Here goes. I am dead meat.

  “… to get me a glass of milk.” Elaine points at the cupboard. “The glass with the pink flowers, okay?” Her face is pure innocence.

  I lean slightly so that the counter can hold me up.

  “Peter, please get drinks for everyone,” says Ba. “I would like water.”

  I watch Elaine carefully all through dinner. She eats and talks and drinks, the same way she always has. You never would have guessed she saved me.

  That night, I go to her room. She is reading in bed—Little House on the Prairie.

  “Thanks, Laney,” I say, standing in her doorway.

  Elaine looks up. “For what?”

  “You know,” I make a circle in the air with my hand. “Not saying anything about that paper.”

  She flips the book over, keeping it open so she won’t lose her place. “Are you in trouble?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s a letter from school, but it’s not about grades or anything, okay?” I don’t want her to change her mind about not telling.

  “Okay.” Then she says, “And you don’t say anything about the band anymore.”

  “Is that why you did it?” I check behind me, to make sure Ba can’t hear us.

  “No, I just didn’t want you to get into trouble with Ba.” Elaine runs her finger over the cover. Two little girls stare at her from the back of a covered wagon. “But I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore, either.”

  I walk into the room and kneel down, so that my chest is the same level as the bed. Laney is wearing a light-blue nightgown. I spread my arms across the top of the bed.

  “How did you decide? I mean, to stop wearing it?”

  Elaine thinks a minute. “I don’t know. One day, it just didn’t feel right.”

  I haven’t changed into my pajamas yet; I am still in the clothes I wore to school. I reach up and feel the band between my fingers. It is hard to explain, but in a way, wearing this tiny strip of cloth makes me feel protected, safe, like I have a a shield against the world.

  MAIL FROM TAIWAN COMES ON SPECIAL THIN BLUE airmail paper, a single sheet, with dotted lines and gummed flaps so that when you fold it up, the letter becomes an envelope, too. The letters from Taiwan always have the addresses written out so precisely, with the same careful strokes as the Chinese characters. I wonder if the senders actually know what they are writing, or if they are just copying the shapes.

  I hand the letter to Mom, while holding the weekly town newspaper that also came in the mail. In the Before, Mom loved getting the light-blue letters. She would read them over and over, laughing at some parts, running her finger over parts she wanted to read more carefully.

  This time she carefully splits the flaps with a hairpin, but after looking at the letter for a minute, she sets it down. “I’ll look at it later,” she says, as if the effort of holding up the delicate blue paper is too much.

  “Who is it from?” I ask.

  “My cousin. You never met her.” I can feel her folding up, moving away from me. We are in the same room, but she is somewhere else.

  I want to have a conversation about something, anything. I am playing a one-sided game of catch—I keep throwing the ball, but nothing comes back. I don’t know how long I can keep going. But I have to.

  “Is everything okay? In the letter I mean?”

  “It’s fine, Peter,” said Mom.

  It’s fine? What she says is so obviously wrong, so obviously not what is happening, that something snaps inside me. I slap the newspaper on the table.

  Mom looks at me, surprised. Instantly, I am ashamed and try to cover up.

  “I, uh, just wish that I could read some Chinese,” I lie. I point to some characters on the airmail envelope. “What does this say? Does it say China?”

  My question works, pulling her back. “Look,” she says. She smooths the envelope with her fingers. When I reach out to touch the envelope I see that my fingers are almost as long as hers. “That character means ‘middle,’ and the one next to it means ‘country.’” She pauses, and then points to a different part of the envelope. “The whole line says, ‘Taiwan, Republic of China.’”

  It is almost too much to hope for: a conversation, a tiny bit more coming back than what I offered. I swallow hard and try to think quickly.

  “What about this?” I say, pointing to the stamp on the envelope. The stamp is a picture of a boy at bat. “What does that say? On the bottom?”

  Mom actually brings the envelope closer to her face to examine it. “It’s for the Little League World Series.”

  My heart stops. I don’t know what to say. Am I allowed to talk about the Before? “Like Williamsport?”

  Mom reaches over and brushes my hair lightly. My scalp tingles. “That was a good day, wasn’t it, Peter?”

  I nod, afraid to speak. If I say the wrong thing, the conversation could end. But I have to say something.

  “I remember the guy at the game, the one who gave out all the flags,” I say, picking something safe.

  “Elaine wanted one of each flag, an American flag and a flag for Taiwan, so that she would be fair,” says Mom.

  “Twenty-two strikeouts for Taiwan,” I say. “A record.” Bie huang. Bie ji. Jiu hao hao tou qiu. Don’t be scared. Don’t be nervous. Keep pitching.

  Mom looks at me, and then, she smiles.

  She smiles.

  It is one of those things you are afraid to take your eyes off of, like a bird that flutters onto the arm of your chair. Part of me wants to run, get Elaine to see, and part of me doesn’t dare move.

  Please stay this way.

  I will sit here and look at this postage stamp with you forever if you let things stay this way.

  “It was a good day,” Mom says softly. “For all of us.” All of us
.

  “I like baseball,” I say. It’s stupid. But I can’t think of what else to say and stay within the rules. I wish she would touch my hair again.

  “You do,” says Mom. She pauses. “You love baseball.” She looks at me, as if she is just remembering.

  This is better than any birthday or Christmas present I’ve ever gotten. It makes me bold. “I wish,” I start to say. “I wish.”

  In the Before, Mom would lean closer and say, “What? What do you wish for? Tell me.” But in the After, it is too much to expect, even in this moment. I lose my concentration, and I can’t think of the right words to say. And as quickly as it came, the moment is gone. Mom curls up on the couch, under her blanket, away from me.

  I scramble for a way to bring her back. I pick up the envelope and point to a second, smaller stamp. “Tell me what this stamp says,” I say.

  No answer.

  “Remember the cake you made when we went to the Series? The lemon chiffon?”

  While I wait for her to answer, I realize my hands are clenched into fists. I force myself to uncurl them and take a breath.

  “I’m tired, Peter.” That’s my cue to leave. Don’t bother your mother.

  I walk out of the room and head upstairs to my room, my mind swirling with questions. What was different this time? What got her to talk? The fact that it was a Wednesday? The weather? How am I going to make this happen again? I look down at my clothes, searching for something different.

  Nelson’s room is the first one at the top of the stairs. The door is closed, plain. Nelson had a Roberto Clemente poster on his door, one he got from a pack of baseball cards. I remember liking coming up the stairs and seeing his smiling face at the top.

  Then it hits me.

  Oceans of green grass and clean white baseballs and thousands of people cheering. The Howard J. Lamade Stadium and flags for Taiwan and the United States.

  Fireflies.

  I know what I have to do.

  “YOU WANT TO PLAY BASEBALL?” ASKS MY FATHER. “NOW?”

  I put down my fork and try to figure out the best way to say yes. I spent a long time that afternoon thinking about how to get my father to let me play baseball. I decided to start out by making dinner. Chili. Not a gourmet feast, but something.