I am six years old and I am sitting on my Dad’s lap on the orange couch in front of the big T.V. Elaine sits next to me on top of Mom, and since there is no more room on our parents, Nancy and Jeanny lie on their stomachs and elbows on the soft carpet below. We are watching the movie, Gone with the Wind and I do not understand why the lady with the skinny waist kisses the man who chop her wood, then slaps him in the face. Elaine looks at me, raises her eyebrows, flares her nostrils and whispers, “Ashley. Oh Ashley,” and we laugh because it is funny. Dad squeezes me quiet and rubs his peppered chin against my cheek. It is rough like sandpaper and I poke my finger in his armpit so he will stop. “You dare tickle Daddy,” my father asks as he wraps his large hands around my thin wrists so as to break them. I giggle and reply yes because I am not afraid.
Dad is warm and I lean back to rest my head against his broad chest. His muscles are bulgy and I struggle beneath his heavy arms to find a comfortable spot. Dad smells of Ivory Soap and red wine and I drink in this smell as if he is fresh air. The wind blows outside and the night is black but I am safe within my father’s grasp.
The movie is over and I pretend I am asleep. I close my eyes extra tight but I am afraid that Mom and Dad will not be fooled. Dad picks me up, grunts and rises to his feet. He whispers to Mom, “This boy is getting heavy,” and together they laugh. As we walk out of the family room, up the stairs, through the kitchen, and down the hallway into my room, I look through my bouncing eyelashes at my Dad’s familiar face. I see his short and bushy eyebrows and his black rimmed glasses. I see his round cheeks and his pink-purplish lips. I hear Mom’s footsteps close behind and I feel as if I am the luckiest person in the world.
Dad lays me down onto my bed and Mom pulls my blankets high upon my chest and tucks them under the mattress so that we are tight. Her hands are soft and cool and smell of Oil of Olay. Usually Mom makes me brush my teeth and wash my feet before I go to bed but tonight she only kisses me on the forehead and tell me to have sweet dreams. I am tired now so I turn to my side, curl up my legs and place my hands between my knees. I am asleep.
* * *
I am lying on the floor with a pair of scissors trimming the carpet like my father mows the lawn. My work is hard and I tilt my head and close one eye so that I may cut each strand the same length. With each clip of the scissors, I watch the sparkling tips fall like dead mosquitos to the ground. I imagine that I am in the jungle and saving the world from the plague. “Gone with yee mosquitos,” I cry as I cut away at the insects with force and speed. The poisonous stings upon my body are like the cuts from three thousand knives. I grit my teeth to ignore the pain. Cut, cut, cut, I scatter the enemy across the room. The blood drips down my head like salty sweat; it’s taste giving me strength. Finally, it is between me and the Mosquito King. I lung at his large body with the point of my sword. It pierces him through the heart and together we fall to the floor, dead.
Soon I am alive and I look around the room for other things to cut. I cut my hair. I cut the curtains. And I cut my Mom’s flowered bedspread. I peer down at my checkered Tough-Skins and wonder if my sharp scissors can break through the knee pads with the wax cardboard reinforcements. Mom says if my Tough-Skins ever break, Sears will give me a new pair, so I try to cut a hole through them to save money. I cannot. Two stuffed lions stare down at me from the top of Mom’s dresser. They are yellow and have long white whiskers like kitty does. Nancy says whiskers help cats fell because they have no fingers to touch. I stare at the two lions and know that they are not real and that they therefore do not need whiskers. I climb up onto the bed, lean over onto the dresser and cut.
At dinner, Dad looks up from his fish bones with a serious face. He asks who was playing with the scissors, who cut the rug, who cut the bedspread and who cut the whiskers off of the yellow lions. All is silent as Dad’s eyes move from Nancy, to Jeanny, to Elaine, then to me.
“I didn’t do it,” says Nancy.
“I didn’t do it either,” says Jeanny.
“I didn’t to it,” says Elaine.
Dad’s eyes finally stare onto me and I glance at down into my soup bowl at the white tofu squares and yellow bamboo shoots. Without lifting my head, I raise my eyeballs and stare into my father’s serious face, “I didn’t do it.”
Dad’s belt stings and I cry not because it hurts, but because he hates me. Dad says that since I lied he can never trust me again and I feel sad and I wish I were never born. He leaves me in the room and just before he shuts the door, he tells me that if I do not stop crying, he will whip me harder. I think this is not fair and I cry some more. I try to cry as long as I can but soon my tears dry and I am left with only hiccups and quick breaths. As I stare at the Winnie the Poo wall paper across the room, I think of all the things I could do to make Dad wish he weren’t so mean. I think of running away. I think of not eating for a week. I think of never speaking to him again. The image of my parents bowing down at my gravestone flashes through my mind and tears well up in my eyes at the thought of death. I slide myself off the mattress and climb under the frame where no one will find me. The room darkens and the night is cold. I press my face against the carpet and the rough lint sticks to my cheeks. I am asleep.
* * *
It is Saturday and I am awakened by voices. Dad’s voice is loud and I know he and Mom are fighting again because they yell at each other in Taiwanese because they think Nancy, Jeanny, Elaine and I cannot understand. Mom and Dad’s voices are like mosquitos buzzing in my ear. They make me feel helpless and they echo in my ear after they are gone. I hide under the covers and hope that the voices will go away but they do not. Like all mosquitos, Mom and Dad’s voices repeatedly sting.
Mom and Dad argue about money, last night’s fish and my messy bedroom. Dad say he works all day while Mom stays home and does nothing and Mom laughs even though Dad’s words are not funny. They argue about other things too: Dad’s pink underwear, the grease on the wall next to the stove, Nancy’s braces and the diamond chips on Mom’s wedding ring and I wonder how it all relates to the money, fish and my bedroom. Down the hall Jeanny screams for quiet and for a while the voices stop.
It is six o’clock when I creep out of bed, open the door and tip toe across the hall, through the kitchen, and down the stairs to the family room. Mom and Dad have stopped fighting and the quiet rings. The family room is not empty though. Mom sits on the floor in her pink bathrobe with her back against the couch and with her hands covering her face. She utters soft moans and her wrists are wet. She is crying. Mom is startled to feel my hand on her shoulder and she looks up at me and tries to smile while tears run down her face. She takes my hand and holds then feels then stares at each one of my fingers. When she is done, she wipes her nose on a crumpled piece of tissue “Do you want to watch cartoons?” she asks trying to smile again. Mom’s voice is shaky and I am confused because Mom never lets me watch Saturday morning cartoons. She makes me read dumb books. For some reason not being sent to my room with the encyclopedia makes me both angry and sad. I stare down at the feet and shake my head no.
Mom gets up from the floor and turns on the T.V. anyway. She flips through the channels, finds the Super Friends and returns to where I stand. “I want to watch,” she whispers as she takes me into her arms and sits me down on her lap on the orange couch in front of the big T.V. Mom is warm and soft and she clutches me tight against her. Together we watch Superman travel the seven galaxies and fight the gang of three.
* * *
It is Monday morning and I am at school singing John Jacob Jingle Heimer Smith. The words do not make sense and I wonder why whenever John comes out, people shout his very long name. First we sing the words normally, then we sing them louder, then louder until Ms. Davies cannot stand the noise anymore and she wrinkles her forehead and pats the air in front of her with the palm of her hands. We then sing the words softer and softer until the words come out only in soft whispers. This makes Mrs. Davies lift the air with her finger tips signaling us to sing louder again. We do this many times and it seems that this song might never end.
At recess, Chris Aggler and I hide in the rubber tires and wait for someone to step into our trap. Hidden beneath the gravel is a noose from a rope that runs from the gravel through a lower tire, up a wood beam, over a steel bar and to our sweaty hands. Perched next to use is a book of knots. Chris and I have been waiting for ten minutes but no one has yet to run across the small mound of pebbles before us. The sun shines bright. It is hot but never do we think of abandoning our posts.
Brandy Snow’s foot appears before us like a fish next to hook and we pull at the rope with all of our might. She is a big girl but we are strong and she screams as the slip knot tightens around her ankle and she falls to the ground while being dragged toward the tires. Chris and I work hard and fast and we wrap the rope around through, up and around the tires above us. Amidst Brandy’s screams, we giggle, and occasionally refer to our book of knots.
Brandy is dangling half upside down by the time Chris and I emerge triumphant from our hiding place. She squirms and begs for mercy but we only stare in amazement at the size of our catch. We talk about roasting Brandy or salting her for better storage or just leaving her to wild birds, but Chris spies Principle Burningham coming from across the field. “Never fool with the masters,” we cry and laugh. We run towards safety.
School is over and Stephanie Skanky and her big brother Billy are waiting for me at the large oak tree between Crest-view and Summit. I see them and I clutch tightly at my book bag. It is too late to cross the street. “Where you going Chinaman?” Billy asks as Stephanie giggles. Billy’s words freeze me in my tracks and I stop to turn my head towards him and Stephanie because I don’t know what else to do. They look back and me grinning.
Billy stands in cut-off shorts and without a shirt. Stephanie wears a light blue halter top and her pink belly-button stares at me in the face. Both Billy and Stephanie have gaps between their front teeth and large upturned nostrils. I look at them and am afraid.
Stephanie places her fingers at the outer corner of her eyes, pulls them tight, and sways her head side to side pronouncing words with a lot of -ings, -angs, and -ongs. The sounds are ugly and they make my body feel cold and my face hot. Billy and Stephanie are much older than me and I stand there feeling helpless, angry and sad. I try to say something mean back to them, but I stutter, and they laugh and ask if I “speekee English” and tell me to go back to where I came. I know their words make no sense, that Stephanie and Billy are mean to all kids my age, that I should ignore their laughs and terrible grins but knowing all this does not make me feel better. Billy and Stephanie dare me not to cry but already tears roll down my cheeks onto the dark pavement below
Dad is watching the CBC Evening News with Walter Cronkite when I run through the door past him into my room. I want to be alone and yet I am glad when Dad sits down next to me and I feel his large strong hand upon my shoulder. Dad asks me what is wrong and at first I don’t tell him but he asks me again and suddenly the thoughts, words, tears and hurt tumble out at once. He listens to me in silence but his eyes squint through his glasses at me but also through me. Dad purses his lips, grabs me under the arms and pulls me up high onto his chest. His neck is soft against my cheek and I press my nose against his light blue dress-shirt and inhale deeply. Dad smells of Coors Light, fresh apricots and Ivory Soap. Outside the light fades and in the dark Dad just holds me. He holds me in the dark and I am safe.
