by Silas House
There is something terrible trapped inside me. I think if I open my mouth to say anything, even “Hello,” that terrible thing will come out. So I have not been talking. Nobody has. We are all sad and quiet. Mum called in sick to work for two days and Kiku stayed home from school to be with her. She hasn’t eaten anything but grapes and crackers. When I came home from school the other day, she was in bed, staring into space, holding a cup of tea. The tea was completely cold. She must have been sitting like that for a long time.
I feel like a different person. I guess anger and sadness are things that settle in your bones and become a part of you. I am still wearing my watch set to India time. I will never take it off.
December 8, 2008
It is three days later. This afternoon, when Mum came home from work, she called Daddy. On Mondays, Daddy’s shift doesn’t start till late, so he and Mum have a chat. I made Mum a cup of tea and she sat in the bed under the covers, and she and Daddy told stories back and forth about Dadi and what she was like when they were young. Kiku wasn’t home yet and I got so sad listening to Mum’s side of the conversation. I wanted to hide. But there is no place to be alone in this city. It is not like home where you can walk out into the trees. I know you will say this is weird, but I will tell you about it anyway. I went into the closet by the front door and sat on the floor. I don’t know how long I sat in there, but when Kiku came home, he opened the closet door and found me. He looked down at me and sucked in his breath like he’d been punched in the stomach. Then he shook his head and took my coat off the hanger and held it out for me to put my arms through. He said, “Come on. I’ll show you something.”
We walked east on Delancey past the men selling Christmas trees and the Golden Chariot Bakery and the boutique that sells winter booties for dogs. It was so cold we could see our breath in the air. When we got to the F train entrance, Kiku put me through on his MetroCard. I followed him to the Downtown side. It was about 6:00 p.m., rush hour, so it was really crowded.
I stopped walking, near the benches, because there was a woman playing the trumpet. But Kiku said, “Keep going,” and took my hand and pulled me farther down the platform. We had to squeeze around people and we kept getting separated and finally Kiku picked me up and carried me, because it was easier that way. Normally I would be embarrassed but today I didn’t care. I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes and listened to the trumpet. I don’t know what song it was, but it matched the feeling in my heart.
Kiku kept walking until we were at the very end of the platform next to the little red traffic light and the mouth of the dark tunnel. Then he put me down. I had never been to the end of the platform before. It always looked so far away and scary.
We could still hear the trumpet. We watched a rat running on the tracks. We looked across the platform at the people waiting on the Uptown side. The trumpet kept playing. After a while, we saw the two big headlights of the subway far down the tunnel, like yellow eyes in the darkness. Everyone on the platform who was sitting stood up. Everyone who was standing moved closer to the track. The sad trumpet kept playing. Kiku put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Just watch me and do what I do, OK?” I felt like something really crazy was about to happen.
The lights of the train got closer and brighter and then the tracks began to rattle and all of a sudden we could hear the train, and the sound got louder and louder and it swallowed the song of the trumpet, and then the train came roaring into the station and I could feel the wind of it, so hot and smelling of old nickels and quarters, and I looked at Kiku and he looked at me and then he opened his mouth really wide and squeezed his eyes shut and started screaming. I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t hear anything but the subway. But I could see that he was screaming as hard as he could. The veins in his forehead popped out and there were tears coming from his eyes. So I started screaming, too. As hard as I could. I couldn’t hear myself but I could feel that terrible thing inside me coming out. I kept screaming and screaming and the train flew by, the cars blinking so fast, and all I heard was the subway and its roar.
We screamed until the subway slowed down and got quiet and stopped. Then the doors opened and all the people inside rushed out and all the people outside rushed in and the doors closed back up and the train pulled away. Me and Kiku stayed where we were and screamed at the next four trains that came into the station. Not a single person heard us. It felt good and we both lost our voices. Poor Mum thinks we have caught a cold. She has such dark circles under her eyes. I am going to make her some of Dadi’s pakoras tomorrow. I hope she will eat them.
So Kiku has figured out a way to be alone in the city. All you have to do is stand at the end of the subway platform and scream as the train comes into the station. I think some of my anger is gone. I keep thinking about it hanging in the air above the F train platform. I hope it doesn’t go inside anyone else. Before I got in bed tonight, I gave Kiku a big hug. He is just like Dadi in his kindness. But he does it in his own Kiku way.
Today in history, Mr. Orff was talking about the New Deal and how if FDR had waited even one more day to start it, many more people would have starved to death and suffered. He said, “Don’t forget that every moment counts.” When he said that, I thought about Dadi. I wish I could have just one more moment with her. I miss her hands. I miss the gap between her two front teeth. I miss the way her knees creak in the morning. I miss everything about her.
You have not written in so long that I think you do not want to be friends with someone who commits perjury. Maybe you are not writing because something is wrong in your life. I hope not. And I hope you hug your mamaw extra tight tonight.
Bye,
Meena
11 December 2008
Dear Meena,
I am so so so so so so so so so so sorry. There is nothing else to say. But I’ll try.
I cannot imagine Mamaw dying. It seems like the whole world would shut down, so I know how hard this must be. I will be praying for you. Some people I know say that I am a sinner since I never go to church anymore, but who are they to judge me? Don’t tell anybody, but I still talk to God all the time. I pray every night, mostly that Daddy will come home from the Gulf Coast and that Mom will stop having such terrible headaches and that Mamaw will be OK.
Sorry about that last part. At first, I wrote it without thinking and then started to delete it because I thought it might upset you worse, what with your own mamaw passing away and all. But then I thought, no, I know Meena, and she would want me to write what is on my mind.
But now the more I write, the more I feel like I might be making it all worse instead of making it better. So I’ll just close by saying that I’m sorry, again. I felt like Dadi was somebody I knew, too, so I was sad for that reason. But I guess the main reason I am sad is because I hate to think of you being sad, and hurting.
There are only two other things I want to say:
1. I am glad you want to be a teacher. But you can be a poet, too. My teacher Ms. Stidham is the best English teacher in the world, but she is also a poet. She doesn’t like to talk about it at school, but one of her poems got published in a magazine, and another teacher at school, Mrs. Sherman, was so proud of her that she had the secretary announce it over the PA system. Ms. Stidham’s cheeks got blood red, and when we all clapped too long she didn’t even get mad like usual, but just laughed and kept putting her hands out as if to tell us to stop, but we didn’t, and I think she might have cried a little, too. We begged and begged for her to read her poem to us but she wouldn’t. So you don’t have to choose one or the other. You can be both, like Ms. Stidham.
2. I liked the part of your letter about Kiku carrying you and then you two screaming in the subway. He seems like a real good brother. I wish I had one. And I bet the screaming will help you to not feel so mad anymore. Mamaw says that sometimes it’s real good to get mad, that it’s just what a person needs to do. But you can only stay mad so long without it making you feel bad. That’s what I think, at lea
st.
I hope you know that I am thinking of you and hoping that things get better. Oh, and right now I am loving the Clash. I’ve listened to all of their songs on YouTube. My favorite is “Should I Stay or Should I Go.” I couldn’t help but to dance to it, so I got up and danced all over my bedroom, bouncing on the bed and jumping all over the place. When the song went off, I was sweating and breathing hard. It felt good, like I had gotten some frustration out in a good way.
Sincerely,
River
December 10, 2008
Dear River,
I was so happy to see your letter in the mailbox. It’s been lonely without you. I thought you didn’t want to be friends anymore. I think our two letters must have crossed in the mail.
How are you doing? You must be so worried. Is your Mum still in hospital? Is she going to be OK? That was all really scary to read. I will not tell anybody that you cried. I would have cried, too.
It is very good that you and your mamaw were there for your mother when she needed you. I loved what you said about the mountains. That was so beautiful and true.
In ten days it will be one month since Dadi died. I think about her all the time. I try to remember everything I can about her. I am afraid I will forget. Mum is eating again but she has not laughed in a while. Kiku is finding it hard to concentrate on his homework.
It made me sad to read about your parents and how they used to be. Maybe they will be like that again someday. Sometimes I think Mummy-Daddy don’t fight anymore only because they hardly ever see each other.
I can’t believe you gave Sam Brock a black eye. Your fistfight sounded just like a movie!!!! I hope you will be back playing soon. I agree with your mamaw that it’s not good to hit people, even stupid boys like Sam Brock. But I agree with what you said, too. Sometimes it is very hard to know what to do.
I had never heard that word “faggot” before I came to New York. I asked Valentina what it meant and she said, “A boy who wants to make out with other boys.” I said, “Like gay?” And she said, “Yeah, but a mean word for it.”
There’s a boy in Drama Club named Carlos. He is in the ninth grade and knows about everything. Marvel Jenkins says he doesn’t live with his parents because two years ago, he told them he was gay. They beat him up and made him sleep on the floor of a church, and Carlos called the cops on them and they all went to court. Now Carlos stays with his aunt on Essex Street and they go to midnight movies all the time and on weekends they don’t change out of their pajamas if they don’t feel like it.
Carlos knows the words to every single movie that was ever made. He’s playing the part of Gregory Gardner in A Chorus Line, and he’s also doing hair and makeup for the girls. He’s better at it than Ms. Bledsoe. Anyway, someone wrote that mean word on Carlos’s locker. I didn’t see this happen because I was absent that day, but Marvel Jenkins saw and she told everyone. It was in between classes and there were lots of kids and teachers in the hallway, and Carlos took out a black Magic Marker from his backpack and he drew a flower and a rainbow on his locker. Then he wrote in big letters underneath the word “faggot”: AND PROUD OF IT. He got detention for defacing school property, but he said, “I refuse to honor my detention unless the other individual who wrote on my locker confesses to his crime like a real man.”
Well, the principal said that was fair. Nobody confessed, so Carlos didn’t get detention. All that stuff is still on his locker. I went and looked at it the other day. He’s really good at drawing flowers.
Maybe you could do something like that if Sam Brock calls you that word again. If you take the bad word and make it good, then you won’t have to hit him and you could just play basketball like you want to.
Do you think you would like making out with a boy or a girl? I asked Kiku that and he said, “Duh. I have a girlfriend, stupid.” But his friend David has a boyfriend and they call each other sweetie and wear each other’s jeans. That sounds nice to me.
Everybody at school is getting excited about Christmas. Sometimes I feel left out at Christmas because I don’t know the songs and we don’t have a tree. Do you have a tree? I bet you and your mamaw make it beautiful. I saw the big one at Rockefeller Center on Mrs. Lau’s TV. She said they should just plant one there and decorate it every December and stop killing a new tree each year. I think that is a very good idea.
Daddy will be working through Christmas. Because he is not Christian, the catering hall asked him to. But he will come home for New Year’s. I am dreading the New Year. I don’t want it to turn 2009. It will be the first year we will live in a world without Dadi.
We have been working hard in Drama Club. The play goes up in five weeks. We are going to have rehearsals even over Christmas break. I am still painting the backdrops, and I am learning how to do the light cues. I like that everyone in Drama Club has at least two jobs. You learn more that way.
We had three inches of snow yesterday. You can always tell how much it has snowed by looking at the tops of the parking meters. It came down like confetti and made me miss Dadi so bad I thought I would vomit. She loved snow and called it God’s blessing. I wonder all the time where Dadi is now. I know she would say she is in things like snow and sunshine. She would say that nothing ever dies, it is just remade. But I still miss her.
I sat on the fire escape in my coat and hat and gloves and watched the snow for a long time. It went past my ears like whispers and it turned the sky pink. I saw a woman in the building across the way watching the snow, too. She was standing in her window, and when I waved at her, she waved back.
The city salts the pavement after it snows, which makes it very painful for Cuba to walk. The salt cuts up his paws and makes him bleed. I looked at those booties for dogs but they cost $20. When I told Kiku, he said he would “do a mad engineer rendition of a bootie.” Sometimes he talks crazy. Well, he cut up old socks, layered them with duct tape, and then rubber-banded them around Cuba’s paws. Homemade booties. He is very inventive, my brother. And Cuba looks so funny! Watching him, Mrs. Lau and I can’t stop laughing. With the booties on, Cuba can’t walk properly. He lifts his paws up high and tries to bite the booties off, and then he sits down and refuses to budge and looks very, very sad. But I think he is starting to like them. I think he has realized that when he has them on, his paws don’t get hurt by the salt. Today he even licked my ear as I put the booties on him.
This is what Cuba looks like in his mad-engineered booties:
Does Rufus come inside when it’s cold?
I do not know much about rent control, so I asked Mrs. Lau. She said hers was started in 1971. So long as she or her children live nonstop in the apartment, they can keep paying the fixed rate. Mrs. Lau says the law was invented to help tenants, so landlords couldn’t keep charging more and making life impossible. But these days, landlords want all the rent-controlled people to leave, so they can sell their apartments for a lot of money. Sometimes they do very bad things to make people leave. For example, there is a woman named Jennifer who lives on the second floor. Her mother had their apartment with rent control, and when she died Jennifer got the lease.
Jennifer has a baby. Last week, Mrs. Lau was talking to her on the stoop and she found out that because the landlord hasn’t repaired Jennifer’s apartment in 25 years, it is falling apart. There is mold everywhere from the leaks, and you can see the pipes in the walls and ceiling. Jennifer said Child Services got an anonymous call, and when they came and saw her apartment, they said she could not raise her daughter there — it was too dirty and dangerous. She said she knows it was the landlord who made the anonymous call. But he won’t fix anything and Jennifer doesn’t have the money for repairs.
So now she either has to put her baby in foster care or move. Mrs. Lau says they will have to leave New York and go to New Jersey, but the girl doesn’t know how to live anyplace else. She doesn’t even know how to drive a car because she has always taken the subway and bus. She was born here, and so was her mother and her grandmother.
I don’t remember hearing a message from you on December 7 at 6:34 p.m. Unless what you said was HI. I will try to send you a message now. There. I just did. December 10, 9:07 p.m. Did you hear me? I think we could have telepathy, too. That would be really fun. And it would save money on stamps.
I hope you will not be jealous but I have a new pen pal. It is Daddy. I am helping him study for the citizenship exam. We read the readings on the same day, and then I make up little quizzes and mail them to him. He sends them back to me and I grade them. Kiku got me a red pen and I am practicing to be a teacher.
In a weird way, it is hard to do the readings. I feel like I shouldn’t be a citizen of a country that wasn’t Dadi’s. Sometimes I want to run away and go back home. Maybe if I go to Mussoorie, Dadi will be there, singing a song, watching a thunderstorm. Maybe I just need to go home and then she will come back. Maybe she is waiting for me.
M.I.A. stands for Missing In Action. It is cool that you knew that. I had to ask Kiku what it meant. M.I.A. is Tamil but grew up in Sri Lanka, and her daddy was a revolutionary who hid from the army. So she grew up without him. She is like us, away from her daddy. I don’t know if you would like her music. She curses and she talks a lot about being a girl. I bet she is someone who would write a song about shaving her legs. Kiku calls her “sassy.” He and Mum and I listen to her albums all the time. But we don’t play them in front of Daddy. He only likes Bollywood songs from the ’70s and the Rolling Stones.
