A Step from Heaven (6 page)

Joon orders Peach Fuzz around in Korean. Peach Fuzz nods as though he understands and the two of them build a mound of bubbles. Apa kneels and soaps the last two tires on the station wagon. I stand by the car, the soapy sponge still in my hand, and gaze off at the street, empty and long, stretching far into the distance.

For one second, the time it takes to blink, I imagine throwing my sponge into the air. Running fast, fast down the street. So fast that I begin to fly. Away. From here. From me.

But when I open my eyes, I am still standing in my place next to Apa. I turn my head so I do not have to watch him spray down the car and make the bubbles disappear.

On some weekend mornings, not always, hardly even any, but some, Apa becomes the Blob. He wakes up with broom hair and catches Joon and me watching cartoons. He sneaks up from behind and scoops us up all at once like a fisherman with a net. We scream and laugh, try to break free, but his lock-strong arms keep us in jail.

Uhmma! we screech. Uhmma, help! We are trapped.

Uhmma comes out of the kitchen, smiles, but shows us her hands. I cannot help you, she says. I will get caught too.

Nooo!
the Blob yells and catches a wiggling Joon by the ankle just as he is about to escape. He stuffs Joon under his arm as easy as a squirrel hiding an acorn. Joon and I try to join forces, like Spider-Man and Superman, like Wonder Twin Powers Activate! Form of a tickle torture. Get him!

Oh no, the Blob does not have a ticklish spot, not even under the arms. But we do. Under our arms. Below our chins. Around our bellies. Help, help! we laugh and gasp.

You can never get away, the Blob cackles and then farts, not once but three times, loud as a rusty car starting in the morning. Brumm. Brumm. Brumm.

Ahhh, we scream and try to plug our noses.

Never, the Blob yells and pins our arms so that we cannot raise our hands to our faces.

Uhmma! we yell again. Uhmma comes out of the kitchen once more. She sees we are almost out of breath. She cautiously
approaches the Blob that stinks of last night's kimchi stew. She pokes his back with her finger.

Rooourrr! the Blob growls and reaches out to grab Uhmma's ankles. She jumps out of the way and runs for the kitchen. Returning with a towel coiled and ready for combat, she swipes the Blob's butt. He farts again just to make a point.

We are dying! I moan.

Hurry, Joon says, his face red and twisted with effort.

Uhmma grabs the Blob's shoulders and pulls him back like a weed. Joon and I try to crawl free, but the Blob catches our legs and pulls us back. He snatches the towel from Uhmma and pulls her into his kingdom by the hem of her shirt. There is no chance of escape. Now we are all one big Blob.

Do you give up? the Blob asks. Do you? Say it.

Never, we cry.

Take this, the Blob says and squeezes us tight as saved money.

Deh suh. We give up, we say.

Good.

When it feels like no air can ever pass through our mouths even though they are wide open from laughing, the Blob finally lets us go. His body goes limp and he melts into the carpet. We lift off his heavy limbs, crawl free.

Ohh, ha, ha, hee. Whee, Apa laughs and gasps at the same time. He gets up slowly. Pats Joon and me on the head. Even pats Uhmma on the shoulder. As he shuffles off to the bathroom, Apa picks up the Korean newspaper from the coffee table and tucks it under his arm.

Sometimes after Apa leaves we have a carpet burn on our knee.
Or a bruise on our arm. But that does not matter. We still wait and wait. Hope and hope. Like watching the sky for snow on Christmas even though the sun shines hot all year round. Because when the Blob comes and wraps us tight in his arms, holds us so close we can hardly breathe, that is when we can finally put our arms around him.

Rain splatters over the car. Joon and I are jailed inside with only a soccer ball and one old library book. Joon lies flat on his stomach, taking up the whole back seat. He hangs his chin over the edge of the seat and picks lint off the car floor. He piles the lint on top of the hump that makes the border for feet space.

Usually it is not this bad on Thursdays and Fridays, when Uhmma and Apa both work late at their second jobs. Waiting for Uhmma at Johnny's Steak House is better than “Please do not touch that” if we wait at Gomo's house. Next year, when I am old enough, Uhmma says I can watch Joon all by myself at home.

When it is not raining, Joon and I play in the alley behind the restaurant, next to the open door of the kitchen. We can bounce the soccer ball against the gray walls until the manager comes outside and says, “Cut out that racket.” Then we play two-square and make up our own rules like No Bounce, Around the Back, and Sky Ball.

And right before the sun goes down, before the rush of knives chopping, food flying, and “Order ready!” singing out, Uhmma will come out of the kitchen and give us our dinner. If we are lucky, it might be ginger chicken, spicy hot, fire on the tongue. But most times it is soup and rice in a bowl, all mixed together so you can eat it with one big spoon. Joon and I sit on the curb with our bowls balanced on our knees, slurping like we are not supposed to at the dinner table. We laugh and see who can make the grossest noise.

But today, because it is raining and the cars are pulling off the freeway quick quick for a long, early dinner, Uhmma can only
rush out with two dry old hamburgers and a big carton of milk. After we finish our dinner, Joon can't sit still. He crawls around in the back seat sticking his hand down between the seat cushions for change. After he finds only two dimes, Joon bounces the soccer ball off the ceiling and starts to sing. Soon the whole car is rocking with his crazy song. “Spider-Man. Spider-Man. He can do what no one can.”

I turn on the flashlight and read him a story about Frog and Toad to make him be good. He bounces the ball against his knee and laughs at all the funny parts. When the book ends we shine the light out the window. We watch the rain hit the black tar and bounce back up like a million tiny silver grasshoppers.

After a while Joon yawns and lets the ball fall to the floor. He curls up in the back seat, one arm under his head. A calm, slow breathing fills the air. I turn off the flashlight and sit in Uhmma's seat. Even though it is raining, the kitchen door is wide open. Inside, people rush back and forth carrying plates. I keep my eyes on the door and think about the last rainy day.

That time the storm was so strong, Uhmma had to hold the umbrella with two hands. She came to the car and tapped softly on the window and I was the only one awake. I opened the door. Uhmma asked, Are you still hungry?

Yes, I whispered even though my stomach felt full. She put her arm around my shoulders and led me out of the car. She closed the door quietly so as not to wake Joon and locked up the car.

Uhmma whispered, The manager went up front for a break. You can come inside for a little while.

When I stepped into the kitchen, steamy fingers of steak and
garlic drew me farther inside. Faces from the stove and sink turned to smile, but then moved so fast their words trailed like smoke from a train.

“Suna-san, you girl amai,” said the woman who flipped the steaks on the grill.

“Pretty girl you got, Suna,” sang a waitress with curly sunray hair. She picked up her orders, placing them three plates across on one arm, and headed for the door.

“How old you?” asked the old cook with crescent-shaped eyes and night spreading his two front teeth. Uhmma had told me about this Chinese cook before. He knew how to take away a headache just by pushing a certain place on your palm. “Ten,” I said. And then because he giggled, I held up both hands and showed him all of my fingers. He gave my fingers a tug.

“You wanee somu soupu?” he asked, pretending to slurp from a bowl. I nodded my happiness and waited for my reward of a small, warm bowl.

I carried my bowl to a table tucked in the back of the kitchen. Uhmma sat drinking tea with the woman who worked at the grill. Grill Woman's hair was wrapped tight on top of her head, pulling her eyes up at the corners. Uhmma patted the seat next to her and continued talking to her friend. I sat down and sipped quietly at my soup.

Uhmma and Grill Woman spoke in a language of mixed and chopped Korean and Japanese, glued together with pieces of English.

“Suna, kinoo that ahjimma scratch car,” Grill Woman said, her eyes small and bright, the size of new pennies.

“Aigoo. Fix takai?”

“No, scratch chiisai.” Grill Woman picked up her cup of tea with her pinkie sticking straight out. I watched her pinkie dance in the air. Uhmma held her cup with both hands, blowing into the steam before each sip. I looked at my hands holding the bowl of soup. Just like Uhmma's. I blew into my bowl and took a sip.

Uhmma was quick to laugh at all of her friend's words. Her squeaky-shoes laugh was back and her face shone bright as a full moon on cold, clear nights. Sometimes when she was speaking fast, she put her cup down and her hands waved and danced in the steamy air. This was a different Uhmma. Not a sad, tired Uhmma who cooked and cleaned and sometimes yelled, but a stranger who had a friend and a secret language all her own. Not my Uhmma. A Suna.

All around me the pots clanked, knives stomped, and the sound of sizzling steak swirled through the air. The waitress with the sunray hair came back through the swinging doors. She held out two bubbly pink drinks, each with a cherry, red as candy, floating in the ice.

“Here, Suna, I brought you and your daughter your favorite drink. A Shirley Temple.” The waitress winked at Uhmma as she set down the drinks.

“Oh, tank you, Kim-bru-rie,” Uhmma said. Uhmma pushed one drink toward me and picked up the other, raising it high in the air. She waited for me to copy.

We clinked glasses just like people in the movies. Uhmma took a sip of the magic drink, then smacked her lips. I took a sip and felt the familiar sting of fizz but with the sweetness of cherries and sunshine all mixed together. I smacked my lips and looked up at Uhmma.

Good? she asked.

Good, I said.

Outside the rain kept falling. A few of the waitresses complained it was miserable weather. Everyone in the kitchen agreed. I bowed my head, watched the cherry float around in my glass. If I could have had one wish, right then, a genie ready for an order, I would have asked that the rain fall forever.

Now Joon wakes up and kicks the back of the driver's seat. “I hate rainy days. Where is Uhmma? I want to go home.” Joon kicks the seat a few more times and then becomes quiet again.

I watch the open kitchen door and do not say anything. I like rainy days.

Joon and Spencer sit sweating under the sun in the middle of the outside cement patio. Pieces of a Lego village are scattered all around them. They are so busy clicking the small gray blocks together that they do not hear me slide open the backyard glass door. They have one tower built, and Spencer checks the box to make sure they are building the second tower just like in the medieval castle in the picture.

“Joon,” I call from the doorway, “we have to go to Gomo's house now.”

Joon looks up at the sound of my voice, but then with a scowl focuses back on the blocks in his hands.

I hear Apa calling to me from the living room, Is Joon Ho ready to go?

“Joon,” I say again, “it's time to go.”

Joon stays kneeling on the cement floor. Apa comes from behind me to the sliding glass doorway.

Joon, clean up, Apa says.

Joon pretends he does not hear and busily snaps a block into place. Apa grabs the edge of the open door frame, the smell of bleach and Windex from cleaning the lawyers' offices last night still lingering on his hands. He pushes me aside and walks over to Joon.

Joon still does not look up from the Legos but begins to complain, I hate going to Gomo's house for lunch. Why do we have to go? It is so boring. All we do is sit. There is nothing for us to play with there. I have no fun.

I stand in the doorway, unable to leave even though I know what is going to happen next.

Joon Ho, get up, Apa orders, standing over him.

Joon tilts his head back and then scrambles up on his feet.

You are whining like a girl, Apa says and cuffs Joon on the head.

Joon's eyes squint against the pain, but more than that, the humiliation of being punished in public, in front of his friend.

Spencer turns away, rubs the side of his crewcut white-blond hair with the back of his knuckles. He has had the same haircut for as long as he and Joon have been friends.

Apa notices Spencer's movements and gives him a wide, only-for-guests smile. “Shu-pen-cher,” Apa says. “Time you go home now. Joon Ho back soon.”

“Sure, Mr. Park,” Spencer says, ducking his head and rubbing the fuzz above his ear.

“Good boy,” Apa says, the same smile stuck to his face.

“See ya, Joon.” Spencer takes off around the side of the house, leaving behind his Lego set.

Apa waits for Spencer to disappear and then turns back to Joon. The smile flies off his lips faster than a door slamming.

Joon keeps his head bowed, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side.

Apa steps closer to Joon. Yah, look at me when I am talking to you.

Joon lifts his face. His eyes glower.

Wipe that look off your face, Apa orders.

Joon's face twitches as he tries to recompose himself, tries to
relax the corners of his eyes and focus on something over Apa's shoulder. I know the technique, how to look blank and as if you are listening when really you are trying to fly away from your body. You can't let Apa know what you are thinking or it will be worse.

What have I told you about whining?

Do not whine, Joon repeats from a well-heard speech.

What else? Apa asks, stepping even closer.

Only girls whine. Men are stronger than that.

Good. Then why were you acting like a girl?