A Step from Heaven (7 page)

I do not know, Joon says, his eyes holding a corner of the sky.

You mean you forgot, Apa says and pokes Joon in the chest with the tip of his finger.

Joon stumbles back for a second and then rights himself.

You forgot, Apa says again, stepping in closer, making up for the lost ground.

Joon nods, his eyes tearing over even though he is holding on to that corner of sky like it is a line to heaven.

Say the truth, Apa orders.

I forgot, Joon drones.

Say it all, Apa snarls, biting down on his lower lip.

I forgot how to be a man, Joon says. A betraying tear slides down his face and Joon hurries to brush it off.

What are you crying for?

Joon shrugs.

Wrong answer. Apa slams his hand across Joon's face.

Joon's head jolts back. A howl escapes from his lips.

Uhmma comes to the doorway and stands behind me. She calls out to Apa over my head, Yuhboh, that is enough.

Apa turns toward her voice. Shut up, Apa says. Keep out of it. This is my son and he will not grow up weak.

Yuhboh, Uhmma says again.

Apa ignores her and focuses back on Joon. Stand up straight, Apa orders.

Joon straightens up, wiping the tears from his face, looking around for that corner of sky.

You cry like a girl. You whine like a girl. Have I not taught you anything? Be strong. Be a man.

Joon's face grows blank again. He found it.

Apa continues, In this world, only the strong survive. Only the strong can make their future. If you cry and whine like a girl, who is going to listen to you? Who? If you talk like a man, fight like a man, you will get what you want in this world. Do you understand?

Yes, Joon whispers.

What did you say? Apa leans in, ear offered up as though listening for a mouse in the wall.

Yes, Joon says louder.

Yes, and what else? Apa asks, straightening up.

It is important for Joon to get it right. If he says what Apa wants to hear, the lecture will end. If he gets it wrong?

Joon hardens the muscles of his face. A mask of glass covers his eyes, cheeks, lips, forehead. Joon says clearly, I must talk like a man and fight like a man if I want to make my future.

Apa leans back on his heels, clasps his hands behind him. Good, Apa says. Good.

My held-in breath pops out from my chest in relief.

Joon looks in my direction.

Apa turns as if to leave and then pivots back around. He balances on one leg and swiftly kicks Joon in the stomach.

Joon never saw it. Never got to prepare his body. The mask of glass explodes into fine shards of pain, etching his face unrecognizable, old. In Joon's place stands a prune-faced grandfather, stooped, holding his stomach, unable to walk.

Uhmma pushes me to the side and rushes out to Joon. Apa grabs her by the shoulder and stops her in one abrupt movement. Joon's mouth gapes wide open as he fights for air.

Apa shoves Uhmma in front of him as they turn back to the house. Apa says calmly, He has to learn his lesson.

Apa stops at the scattered Lego set and tells Joon, Hurry and clean that up before we leave for your Gomo's. I do not want to be late.

Joon hobbles over to the Legos.

I back away as Apa and Uhmma step inside. After they pass, I rush outside and help Joon clean up. We kneel together and disassemble the castle towers.

“I hate him,” Joon says.

I nod silently and drop the small gray plastic pieces back into the box. As I try to pull apart a red flag from a gray block, the flag breaks in my hand.

Joon's eyes follow the sound of the snap. “That's my flag!” Joon cries and jerks back his hand.

I stare at the broken flag in my palm. Joon's slap rings in my ear.

We thought nothing would happen the way we wanted. Not ever.

Not the time Apa, with a distant edge in his eye, took us to see the new houses being built on a nearby hill and said, We shall see. But then we never did see, although Joon and I asked every day and even packed our clothes in brown paper grocery bags in case we had to move fast.

Not the time a letter addressed to Apa with the words “You Are the Next Ten-Million-Dollar Winner!” and two hazy men's grins stamped on the front made Joon and me so crazy with heat we had to run up and down the hallway screaming.

And definitely not the time Harry died. It's hardest to think of Harry because we tried that time. Really tried. It wasn't about luck or waiting for Uhmma and Apa to tell us the good news. It was about us. Joon and me trying our best, like the teachers in school tell us to do and we'll be rewarded. Even then. Nothing.

Harry was our baby bird, an orphan we had to save because we found him crying all alone with no one to take care of him. He was worse off than we were. Joon found him on the way home from the corner market one day. As always, Joon was running ahead of me, gathering up speed on the downhill so that he could jump over a low juniper bush. Joon leapt forward, and then just as it looked like he might clear, his back foot caught a branch.

I think it was fate that made Joon fall when he tried to jump over that bush. If Joon's head hadn't been so close to the ground the moment Harry peeped for help, we would never have found
him. He was such a little bird. Nothing but a spit mark on the dirt.

When we got Harry home, Joon and I made up some juk-rice and warm water all mixed together looking like glue. It was the food Uhmma fed us when we were sick. Every time Harry opened his mouth we fed him a spoonful of juk. After a while Harry was covered with it, but he stopped crying and fell asleep.

Joon didn't think Uhmma and Apa should know about Harry. “He's our bird, Uhn-nee. We have to take care of him.” Joon's eyebrows knitted together in a dark scowl. “Anyway, they might not let us keep him.”

So we wrapped Harry in an old towel and put him in a shoebox. We hid him in the back of Joon's closet. Ellie, the purple-nosed elephant, stood guard. We tried to love Harry the way good parents are supposed to. We cooed and petted his short, dark feathers. We held him next to our cheeks and told him he was going to grow up to be a strong bird.

After school, we would “guy-bye-boh” to see who had to clean out the box and who got to feed Harry.

“Ready?” I asked Joon.

“Ready.”

“Guy. Bye. Boh.” We shook our fists in rhythm to the words.

Joon held out his hand flat. Paper.

I held out two fingers in a V. Scissors. Scissors cut paper.

“I win,” I said and gently scooped up Harry. Joon picked up the box, his head angled away from the odor.

“When do you think we should teach him to fly?” I asked as I spooned some juk into Harry's mouth.

“Soon, I think,” Joon said, scraping out the inside of the box
with a crumpled piece of paper. He turned to me with a grin. “I bet Harry's going to grow to be an eagle.”

I looked at Harry's skinny neck. I didn't know about that, but I didn't say anything.

When Harry got to be a little bigger, Joon cupped him in his hands and zoomed around the house.

“I'm teaching him how it feels to have the wind in his face,” Joon said when I worried Harry might get dizzy. I sat on the couch hugging my knees, fingers crossed in hope that Joon would not crash into a wall. I knew Harry had to learn how to be a bird someday. He was growing fast.

But then he stopped. Growing. Breathing. We opened the closet door and Harry didn't peep when the light reached him. I took out the box. Harry lay curled up in the towel, still and quiet as the sunlight falling on the bed. I didn't want to believe what I saw. I closed my eyes. Maybe Harry would move when I opened my eyes again. No. I started to cry and looked over at Joon. He stood stiff and straight, staring at the wall above his bed, clenching and unclenching his fists. I touched his shoulder. Joon jerked away.

We buried Harry on a hill, the hill where we were supposed to live but never got a chance to. We wanted Harry to be someplace high so he could at least have a clear view of the sky. And even though there were brand-new houses all around the place we were headed, we tried to walk as if we belonged there in our patched jeans and tight, faded T-shirts, carrying an old shoebox and a purple-nosed elephant. No one stopped us.

We knew there were no houses in one area of the hill, only a few trees and crumbling dirt. With the sun dying at our backs,
Joon and I knelt down with our spoons and started to dig. A light breeze stirred the ground and a mist of dirt rose up, coating our faces, hair, and the inside of our noses.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and night waited high in the sky, I placed Harry's box into the hole. Joon settled Ellie on top to stand guard. When the last of Ellie's pink fur disappeared underground, Joon and I stood up and put the spoons back in our pockets. Black lines of dirt rimmed the tips of my nails. I tried picking some of it out but only pushed it farther in. Frustrated, I shoved my hands quickly into my pockets. I glanced over at Joon.

Joon's head was tilted down, and there was barely a rise in his chest when he breathed. His eyes were locked on the small mound no bigger than a teddy-bear bump under the covers. Maybe it was the faint light or the way Joon, who was never still, did not even move his hands, but for a moment I thought I was seeing his ghost. I tried to bring him back.

“Let's pray like they do on TV and in church,” I said, remembering the way Halmoni's prayers and rocking always made me feel better.

“Why?” Joon said, lifting his chin.

“Well, when people die, they say prayers to thank God and—”

“God hasn't done anything that I should have to thank him for.”

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I went around it. “Maybe we could just say something about Harry. It doesn't have to be a prayer.”

Joon shrugged but stayed where he was. I licked my lips and started. “Harry, we're really sorry you had to go away. We were going to teach you how to fly and everything. I'm sorry if we didn't
give you enough food or take care of you like a real mommy bird would have.” I could feel the tears coming, so I sputtered out quickly, “Good-bye, Harry.”

Joon rubbed his hands along the sides of his jeans. He kept rubbing them as if they were never going to get clean. I cried quietly, but Joon never uttered a sound. As my tears dried and the silence spread between us until I thought there was nothing more to say, I turned to leave.

In a broken whisper, Joon finally spoke. “I love you, Harry,” Joon said. His eyes searched the stars. “It never happens the way we want. Never.”

Please, Uhmma. It only takes a dollar, I explain.

Uhmma stares at the orange and white form filled with numbers.

The twenty-three-million-dollar sign makes me brave with my words. I tell her, We could win and then we would be rich.

I see Uhmma figuring out the cost in her head. She rubs the sheet between her fingers as if it were an expensive piece of silk.

Uhmma says that in America even one penny should be saved. When Uhmma caught me throwing a penny, along with old papers, in the trash, she yelled, Do you think the clerk would let me leave with the groceries when I am one penny short?

I argued back, even though I wasn't supposed to. Uhmma, it is only a penny. You cannot buy anything for a penny.

Uhmma narrowed her eyes. You were born to the wrong family. You should be with parents who can afford to throw away pennies like trash.

Uhmma loves her pennies, collects them like flowers in an old glass vase she found at a garage sale. More than once Uhmma's pennies have saved the weekly groceries. I am embarrassed when Uhmma puts down a million pennies and the clerk snarls as she counts out the change. I inch away from Uhmma, pretend I am not that woman's daughter. Not a poor Oriental who saves pennies like gold.

Uhmma starts digging at the bottom of her purse for the change that will buy us a ticket to our dreams. Go ahead, she says. Get us a ticket.

“Yes!” I shout, and hurry to fill in the numbers.

I color in the bubble next to my favorite number, 11, for the day I was born. I tap the pen against my lips and think about other lucky numbers. I remember the seven days Harry lived and fill in the bubble next to the number 7. I know he will help us win. Just to be nice, I pick the number 17, for the day Joon was born. Three more numbers.

Uhmma, do you have a favorite number? I ask.

Uhmma looks up and purses her lips for a second, and then a slow smile spreads across her face, erasing the faint, squinting worry lines between her eyes. She says quietly, Ten. I like the number ten.

I start to ask her why that number, but Uhmma has already gone back to scraping up the change in her purse. I carefully fill in the oval next to the number 10 for Uhmma. What number would Apa like? Apa with his yellow callused palms from gardening all day and then cleaning up the lawyers' offices at night. The pen hovers over the numbers, unsure of where to go. Finally, I dot in the oval next to the number 1. One for being the only Apa I have. One for being the only son who must send money back to Halmoni.

And finally 23, for all the millions that will make us magically better. No more closed-door, late-night arguing over money. No more bowls loaded with fluffy white rice hiding small pieces of meat. No more saving pennies. I finish filling out the sheet and wave it at Uhmma, who stands there cupping in two hands a chance at our dreams.

At the counter I lay down the Superlotto sheet and look over the six glowing blue dots.

“One Superlotto ticket, please,” I say.

Uhmma puts down her change: one quarter, two dimes, five nickels, and too many pennies. I wrinkle my nose at all the pennies and try to look elsewhere as the woman behind the counter watches Uhmma count. I try to fill my head with all the things that will happen when we are rich.

On the drive home, nothing is impossible. I ask Uhmma, What would you do if we won the lottery?

Oh, I suppose I would buy everyone some new shoes, she says and looks down at my sneakers that pinch at the toes.