A Long Pitch Home (2 page)

Still, I fill my suitcase to bursting, and now our last day in Karachi is here. We are standing in the Jinnah International Airport on July the fourth at four o'clock in the morning. My
baba
tells me this: “Today will be the best day of your life, Bilal.”

I do not say anything, because I am too busy wondering what my father will tell my friends tomorrow afternoon when they come to our door expecting to celebrate my birthday, arms full of presents. I am thinking about how my chocolate malt cake with fudge frosting will be sitting in the refrigerator in the back of the Pie in the Sky bakery. When the baker figures out no one is coming to get my cake, maybe he will take it home to his own family for their Eid celebration at the end of Ramadan.

My father leans down to look me in the eye, and I blink hard. “Bilal,” he says, “cricket has taught you strength and resilience. To do your best even when things are not easy. To support your teammates.” He swallows, and I wonder if his throat feels tight like mine does. Baba's eyes don't leave mine, and his voice is firm when he tells me, “Now it is time to be strong for your mother, your sister, and your brother.”

Losing a cricket match after trying your best for five hours is not the same as moving to America. I do not say this to Baba. Instead I take a shaky breath and blink fast to keep my tears from spilling down my cheeks.

“You will see, Bilal,” he says, his voice gentler now. “Today is the beginning of a new life for us. Not only is today your birthday, but—guess what?” He smiles. “It is America's birthday, too.”

I nod like this is good news, but how can today be the best day of my life if we are leaving Baba behind? I would give up birthday parties for the rest of my life if only he could come with us now.

Hira tugs on my father's sleeve. “Baba, why can't you come to America now, with us?”

“I have to take care of some things at work,
baytee
.” He takes Hira's hand. “Your uncle will be there to meet you, and I will come as soon as I can. Do not worry.”

I worry anyway.

Humza chews on a cookie as he watches a cart loaded with suitcases roll past. He has no idea we will not see Baba for who knows how long. He has no idea he's supposed to feel sad. I wish I could trade places with him. My father kisses the top of Humza's head before pulling Hira and me into one last hug. Then he holds my mother close. She cries enough silent tears to fill the Lyari River. Hira slips her hand into mine, and I gently squeeze it. She is only six. I will be ten by the time this day is over—too old to cry in front of my father. When my mother finally pulls herself from Baba's arms, we walk under the Unaccompanied Women and Children sign for the first time in our lives and head toward the desk where a man is checking passports. He stifles a yawn as he stamps our papers.

When we are through the line, my mother says to look straight ahead and be strong.

I don't listen. At the last moment, I turn and see Baba, his hand over his mouth and his eyes full of pain. When he sees me, he puts a kiss into that hand and sends it my way. I catch it, like I always do, and pat it onto my heart extra hard, so it will stick. My eyes sting, blurring my last look at Baba before I run to catch up to my mother.

When the plane finally lifts us into the air, I realize I never sent Baba a kiss back. I send one now into the shadows of the sunrise and hope it will travel through the airplane window and find its way to him.

“He will join us soon, Bilal. You will see.”

I nod, still looking out the window as Karachi shrinks into a toy city with blinking lights.
He will join us soon.
I repeat my mother's words in my head over and over, because I want to believe they are true.

My father said that today, the fourth of July, would be the best day of my life. My father is wrong.

 Two

T
he very first thing Uncle says to me at the airport is, “Happy birthday, Bilal! I can't believe you are already nine.” I know why he can't believe I am nine; it is because I am ten. But I do not tell this to Uncle. I think he would be embarrassed not to know the age of his only sister's son, even though the last time I saw him was back when I was in Class 1, barely six years old. That was just before Uncle moved his family to America, and we stayed in Karachi.

We follow Uncle out to a huge car that he calls
mini
—a minivan. The air feels like Karachi—warm and thick—but the sounds here are different. As we load our suitcases into the van, not one horn honks in this whole gigantic parking lot. It looks funny to see Uncle sitting behind the steering wheel on the left side of the car and Ammi sitting next to him, where the steering wheel should be. When we start to drive, I can see why Uncle is sitting on the wrong side: everyone drives on the wrong side of the road instead of the left.

Hira peppers Uncle with questions the whole way, but her voice eventually fades from my ears as I take in the scenery rolling past the window.

We zoom along a wide road with four neat lanes. It's nothing like Karachi, where sometimes you can't tell which lane is which because scooters weave between cars, minibuses chug alongside men on bikes, and donkeys pull carts carrying bricks or boxes or sacks of food.The few buses on this American road all look exactly the same; not a single one is decorated with colorful designs, and no fringe hangs from their bumpers. No one rides on top or hangs out of the doors or windows.

Uncle turns into his neighborhood, where the houses are like the cars on the highway—neatly spaced, very big, and mostly the same. I don't see any palm trees, just leafy giants as tall as our apartment building back in Karachi. Each house has its own garden right out front, and most of the cars are parked on small lanes that lead to garages. The one car parked in the wide street is yellow with a rounded roof and hubcaps that look like white flower petals.

Uncle parks in his own lane in front of his garage and says, “Here we are!”

Hira gasps. “This is your
house
, Mamoo?”

Uncle laughs. “It is your house, too, Hira
jaan
!”

Looking at the brick front and six windows of the twostory house, I can't believe only three people live here. Well, now it will be seven. Eight when Baba comes.

Ammi takes in a breath. “What a lovely house,
Bhai jaan
!”

Uncle presses a button that opens the back of the van. “Thank you,
Baji
.”

It is strange to hear my mother call someone
brother
and to hear her called
sister
. I think of her only as Ammi.

We step through the front door, passing a staircase and a living room on the left. Down a hall there is another living room with a brick fireplace, and then a kitchen so big that there are two places to sit—at a round table with six chairs and a high chair for Humza, or on tall stools around a square counter in the center of the kitchen.

The very first thing Auntie says when she greets us is, “Bilal! You must be hungry.” I have always liked Auntie. She looks exactly the same as I remember. When I tell her so, she gives me an extra hug.

Behind her I see yet another room off the kitchen with a fancy table and chairs.

The front door slams and in jogs Jalaal, who towers over Auntie. The very first thing my cousin says to me is, “Hey, little buddy.”

I do not know this English word
buddy
, but I know
little
. Does he think I am so little? Maybe he also thinks I am still nine. Then he slides his hands into his American jeans pockets and switches from English to Urdu to say his second thing, which is this: “Don't worry—I'll teach you everything you need to know about living in America.”

I believe him, because he speaks Urdu with an American accent. Then he switches back to English. “Your mom says you're pretty good with English.”

I shrug and smile. “I like learning the new word,” I answer, so Jalaal can hear for himself.

Jalaal nods. “Nice.” He picks up my backpack and switches back to Urdu. “Come on, I'll show you where to put your stuff.”

Hira takes my hand. “I want to come, too.”

We follow Jalaal up the stairs. Having steps inside the house feels like living in two apartments all at once. Our building in Karachi has a stairwell that goes up all twelve stories, but we only use it when the power is out and the elevator doesn't run.

Jalaal leads us down the hallway. “This is my parents' room.” He points through double doors to a room with a bed our whole family could probably fit on. We pass another room. “That's where your mom will stay.” A crib for Humza sits next to a double bed that must be for Hira and my mom. But then Jalaal points to yet another door and says, “Hira, this is your room.”

“Oh!” She claps in delight and pushes the door all the way open. Light pink walls match the pillows on the bed. A stuffed bear sits on a rocking chair, and Hira's name is spelled out in white letters on one wall.

“Do you like it?” Jalaal waves his hand across the room like a showman. “I painted the walls. I heard you like pink.”

Hira beams and throws her arms around Jalaal, then races down the stairs, calling, “Ammi! Come and see!”

Finally we get to the last room. “This is our room, little buddy.”

Jalaal's room—my new room—looks like a bedroom from an American show we get on Dish. From the posters that cover the wall near one of the beds, anyone can see Jalaal likes some group called the Nationals. These Nationals must be a sports team—men in uniforms throw a white ball and hit it with a round bat—but it is a sport I have never seen.

Jalaal's trophies stand at attention along two bookcase shelves, with two empty shelves below. Next to each bed is a nightstand topped with a lamp.

Jalaal points at the empty wall above my bed. “You can put up any posters you want.”

I do not tell Jalaal I couldn't bring my posters. My mother said posters don't do well in suitcases, so my all-time favorite cricket stars—Omar Khan, Waqas Akram, and Arham Afridi—are still hanging on my wall back home. I look at Jalaal's sports wall and ask, “Does America have any cricket teams?”

Jalaal shakes his head. “Not any professional teams. There're a few local teams. Just adults, though.” He shrugs and picks up a ball from his dresser. “Baseball is America's version of cricket. Sort of.”

So that is what it's called—
baseball.

Jalaal tosses the ball a little to my left, and I reach out and snatch it.

“Not bad, little buddy.”

There is that phrase again, so I have to ask: “What does
buddy
mean?”

Jalaal smiles. “It means ‘friend.'”

I am glad Jalaal thinks of me as his friend, although I am not little. Compared to Jalaal, I guess I am. But I was one of the tallest players on my cricket team this year.

I smile back at Jalaal and say, “I will call you ‘big buddy.'”

He laughs, so I think he likes his new nickname.

I pass this baseball from one hand to the other. It's about the same size as a cricket ball, but not as heavy. Instead of two straight lines of stitches around the center, this one has two wavy lines, one like a frown and one like a smile. I look back at the white, round pillows on the beds and realize they are made to look like baseballs.

Jalaal holds up his hands, palms out, the universal sign for “Throw me the ball.” So I do.

He catches it easily, almost like an afterthought. Plunging a hand into the pile of clothes on his bed, he fishes out a folded piece of padded leather. “Come on—let's go out back.”

When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Auntie calls out, “I hope you're hungry!”

My mother turns as Jalaal and I walk past the kitchen. “Wait until you taste the
iftar
feast Auntie has prepared, Bilal! She even has a special birthday surprise for you.”

I smell masala and am relieved that we are having something normal. I have heard Americans eat hot dogs, but I do not want to try those. We don't eat dog meat in Pakistan.

Jalaal opens the back door, and we step out onto a wooden terrace to the sound of some kind of motor. A man next door pushes the handle of a grass-cutting machine—Jalaal calls it a
lawn mower
. The motor is so loud that Jalaal has to yell: “This way!”

Three steps down from the terrace and we're standing on a carpet of green grass—not a single patch of dirt or sand. The grass-cutting motor fades as the man pushes the machine from the back of his house to the front.

“Here, put this on.” Jalaal opens the padded leather pouch, and I stare at it.

“What is it?”

Jalaal grins. “A glove. All baseball players wear them out on the field. And the catcher, of course.”

“
The
catcher? There is only one?”

“Yup.”

I frown. In cricket, many players are allowed to catch the ball, not just one.

“Why do the baseball players on the field all wear gloves if only one of them can be the catcher?”