A Cab Called Reliable Read online

  “Can’t you see for yourself? I’m hanging,” I shouted back.

  “What are you hanging there for?”

  “Because it feels good. This is how you make yourself go to the bathroom. I’m busy, Boris, so why don’t you just go home and do whatever you do?”

  “Don’t you want to come over and play?”

  “Boris, you don’t have a leg, and two people can’t hang together on one pole.”

  As I watched Boris walk to his apartment, I told the pole that Boris was stupid to have a crush on Mrs. Chambers just because she listened to handicapped boys say tongue twisters all afternoon. She was married, too old for him, and probably had children our age. What did they talk about today? Old MacDonald moving mountains on Mondays?

  I clung to the pole, smelled the metal, and picked at the rust with my thumbnail. Mr. Albert, Miss Martin, the librarian, the secretary, Mrs. Lubbock, the guidance counselor; they were all so damn nosy. What’s it to them if I throw up my breakfast eggs all over their desk while I hand them my lunch money? What’s it to them if I wear the same jumper every day of the week? What’s it to them if my father can’t meet them for conference time? I wish they’d stop asking me about my mother. How many times do I have to tell them that she’s on vacation and can’t chaperone those stupid field trips to the Kennedy Center, where everyone has to bring a bag lunch. How was I supposed to know that once I opened the foil, the kimbop would stink and leave seaweed pieces in my teeth?

  I remember how my second-grade teacher stooped down and blinked her eyes when she asked me about brushing my teeth. Ann, have you been brushing your teeth? Do you know what I mean? She made a fist and shook it left and right next to her exposed teeth. And I smiled at her while answering in my head, No, Miss Martin, I don’t know what you mean. We don’t brush teeth in our country. We let them rot. See? I saw her. I saw how Miss Martin’s eyes looked over at me when the lice inspector told her the entire class was clean except for one student. I saw how her eyes grew big with surprise when he whispered the description of the little black boy sitting at table four, instead of the Chinese girl at table six. I’m not Chinese. My father’s not Chinese. My mother’s not Chinese. Loo Lah’s not even Chinese. She’s my father’s girlfriend.

  My father wants her to be my new mother because the real one left. He found Loo Lah behind one of the cash registers in Arirang Market. She used to sell rice cakes, green and pink fish cakes, instant noodles, rock candy, and sacks of rice. Loo Lah used to bring my father and me food from the store. But once she came to live with us in our apartment, she quit her job at Arirang Market. Loo Lah now takes long hot baths, shortens and takes in the waist of the dresses my mother left behind, covers our beds with sheets—American style—listens to love songs, and watches television to improve her pronunciation, while my father welds silver fences around parking lots all morning and all afternoon. She cooks bean cakes, makes rice wine, pickles radishes, and makes rice with sweet corn, my father’s favorite. He calls her Lah-yah. He tells me to call her Sister or Little Mother. But I can’t.

  I try not to call her at all. But when I find her hair, long and permed, all over the bathroom floor, I become angry and say, “Little Mother, clean up the bathroom floor or shave your damn head.” She cannot mother me. Loo Lah’s only twenty-five years old. Although she feeds me, she cannot press her lips together as she chews her gum. She falls asleep on our sofa to the noise of the television. After eyeing me, she suggests I condition my hair with hot oil, pierce my ears, pluck my brows, and if my father is willing to pay, have folds surgically formed on my eyelids. She croons popular Korean songs about how a lover could so easily leave her beloved with the excuse of teaching him the sadness of love or with a good-bye note tucked in a bouquet of chrysanthemums or a drawerful of un-mailed love letters. When my father leaves us alone in the apartment, he hopes that on his return he’ll find me sitting on the floor between her knees, while she brushes and braids my hair. But my hair is too short for braids. He hopes to find her frying bean cakes while I stand behind her stirring the batter. Instead, he finds a snoring Loo Lah lolling on our sofa.

  All she knows how to do is bathe, shampoo, feed, and groom herself. Her nails are painted pale pink. Her brows are plucked and drawn in. Her face is massaged. She has the awful habit of picking at the mascara clumped on her eyelashes, which look to me like the legs of an ant. Loo Lah’s not my mother. No matter what, she never will be. Loo Lah will have to pack her things and leave when my real mother and little brother return.

  I remember when my father worked overtime all week and finally when Friday came around, he came home early, about four o’clock, with his paycheck. My mother turned off the stove, untied her apron, and went into her bedroom to change into her brown dress with the pink baby umbrellas on it. When she came out, her hair was long and wavy, and I could tell she had just brushed it. She was wearing red lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Min Joo and I put our shoes on and waited at the door, while our mother and father got ready. She walked from the radiator in the kitchen to the one in the living room, then to the one in our bedroom, looking for her pantyhose. The water in the bathroom was running, and we could hear our father humming. Min Joo and I, tired of waiting, played Gahi Bahi Boh, which the stupid kids at school called paper, rock, scissors. Gahi Bahi Boh. Min Joo held out a fist. I held out two fingers. Our mother and father came into the living room. Father was slapping his shaven cheeks, smiling and singing, Hurry, let’s go.

  Min Joo always sat behind Mother, and I always sat behind Father. Min Joo wanted to play Gahi Bahi Boh some more, but I told him no. Then he wanted to play Mook Jji Bbah, but I told him no. I simply wanted to sit still and watch Pershing Market, Buckingham Theater, Rosenthal, AOK TV move along outside while I listened to the Carpenters singing about rainy days and Mondays always getting them down. When Father whispered how much he made this week, Mother smiled, so I thought this would be a good time to tell her what Mina’s mother had said about Min Joo and me. She said Min Joo had Mother’s personality, but looked like Father. I had Father’s personality, but looked like Mother. When I said that, my mother turned her head toward me and snapped, So you really believe you look like your mother? I sank into my seat and sang, Hanging around, hanging, nothing to do but frown, rainy days and Mondays always get me down.

  When we got to the restaurant, Father ordered four Gino Giants, four medium french fries, four medium Cokes, and a small coleslaw for Mother because she had to have a side dish with her meal. Father wanted to sit at a table next to the men’s room so that he could watch his Ford Fairlane from his seat, but Mother said the smell was making her lose her appetite. So Min Joo and I moved to another table, and I waited for her to give me my Gino Giant. She picked up the tray of food. Father lit a cigarette. She walked toward the table Min Joo and I had chosen. Mother’s purse slid off her shoulders and landed on her forearm. The tray shook. One of the Gino Giants, which was still in its wrapping, fell to the floor. She picked it up, blew on it, and put it in front of me. That was the only time she ever served me first.

  I was born first. The firstborn was supposed to get everything first. So why? Why did she always buy him new pants and shirts? Why did she feed him first? Why did he get the cotton quilts, while I slept with sheets? Why did he get a two-wheeler when he didn’t even know how to ride? I knew the plums were hidden for him.

  I remember when Min Joo broke the vase Grandmother sent from Korea. Mother had told him not to bounce balls in the living room, but he did. When she heard the vase crack, she rushed in, leaving the water running, and she yelled, Ahn Joo-yah, go find the back scratcher! I knew the stick was on her dresser, so I quickly fetched it for her. I said, Here, Mother. She looked at me and said, That was awfully fast. So you want to see your brother beaten, huh? And she pushed me against the closet doors.

  Why did she give me the broken pancakes? Why did she thin my milk with water, not his? Why did Min Joo get to eat some of Joon’s applesauce, not me? Why did she brush his
hair and not mine? Mine was longer. Why did she take Min Joo with her, and not me?

  I remember when I turned nine, my mother made me seaweed soup with mussels. I wanted to thank her by eating it all up while it was steaming hot, but I did not know the steel bowl would burn my fingers. I dropped the bowl, and the soup spilled all over my lap. My mother struck me across my right ear and told me I was an ungrateful, clumsy daughter. That evening I saw her knitting in front of the television. I sat near my mother’s feet, watched with her, waiting for the right moment to tell her how sorry I was for spilling her soup. We sat quietly for a while, until she jerked my shoulder back to take a look at my face. My mother saw me crying, and she pointed the knitting needles at my nose and asked, What did I ever do to make you so miserable? When I didn’t answer, she yelled, Ahn Joo-yah!

  My mother blamed me for burning her cooking. She blamed me for the broken fan, the crank calls, the cockroaches. She blamed me for Min Joo’s crying. She blamed me for Father’s drinking and Father’s magazines. She said it was because of me we came to this awful country. Then my mother put down her knitting and cried herself, mumbling something about being a bad mother, killing herself or running away. I quickly wiped my face and told her I wasn’t crying, that something got caught in my eyes, that I was all right, that I was sorry, and that I didn’t want her to die or go away, please. But she poked her toe into the center of my chest and said it was too late.

  My mother let Min Joo cry, but she never let me cry, so I hid in my closet, biting the edges of my blanket. She caught me once and yelled, What are you crying for? Did your mother die? What are you crying for? She pulled me out of the closet and told Min Joo to look for the back scratcher. Min Joo was glad he did not know where it was. He did not like listening to the stick whoosh through the air, then land slap on my skin. He did not like seeing those red rectangles on my calves. When Min Joo came back saying, Mother, I don’t know where it is, she went frantic until she remembered using it in bed the night before to scratch the back of her head. She had left it under her bed.

  Pointing the stick at me, my mother chanted, What are you crying for? Did your mother die? What are you crying for? The head of the stick landed on my arm. What are you crying for? Did your father die? What are you crying … Before she could finish, for I knew the slap would come right after, I yelled, I’m crying because you like Min Joo more than you like me! Taking a deep breath, my mother said, So that’s why you’re crying. And you’re not going to stop? Aren’t you going to stop? And the stick came down on my back. You stupid, stupid girl. Ahn Joo-yah, think hard. Think hard about it. Scratching her ankle with the stick, she walked out of my room.

  * * *

  My father’s car was turning into the court, and Loo Lah was sitting on the passenger’s side. I let go of the pole, slid down, picked up my school bag, and ran to our apartment. I threw my things onto the couch and went into the kitchen, where I washed our dinner and breakfast dishes and filled three bowls with the steaming white rice I had prepared in the morning. With my thighs aching and my palms smelling like rust, I set three spoons, three pairs of wooden chopsticks, and three cups on the table. I removed a pot of bean sprout soup from the refrigerator and put it on the stove. I turned on the heat. While waiting for the soup to boil, I filled our cups with ice cubes and water. Sitting on the couch with my knees sealed together, I opened my spelling book on my lap. When I heard my father and Loo Lah climbing the stairs together, I formed the words with my mouth: Might. Sight. Flight.

  7

  I taught myself how to read palms in Mr. Greer’s fifth-grade class, when I was assigned to write a book report on Pan, half man and half goat, the Greek god of woods and pastures, the protector of shepherds and farmers, from whom the word “panic” came. I was looking him up in the encyclopedia, and on the opposite page was a photograph of a yellow palm with black lines under the heading “Features of the Hand in Palmistry.” Each line had a label: line of the heart, line of the head, line of marriage, line of fortune, line of health, line of life, line of fate. I memorized them all, told futures, fortunes, and tales during lunch and recess, and earned the name “Palmer” from the fifth-grade class of Sherwood Elementary.

  The first palm I ever read belonged to Yvonne Weaver. She sat at table number four across from her boyfriend, Keith, who one day announced to the class that he saw his father suck on his mother’s nipple in the hospital the day after she had delivered his baby brother. His father was black; his mother was Japanese. His baby brother looked Japanese, and Keith looked all black. Next to Keith sat Yvonne’s best friend. Lisa had daddy-longleg legs, wore orange and green leg warmers in the winter, was the fastest runner at Sherwood Elementary. Sitting across from Lisa next to Yvonne was Judy. Judy drew horses on the margins of her math notebook, made origami swans with paper napkins, and had an older sister who was pregnant by accident. Whenever I walked by their table, I heard talk of love, animals, designer jeans, and nicknames, and I heard leftover laughter from one of Keith’s funny stories.

  When Yvonne laughed, her face reminded me of a Korean song my mother used to sing about a pretty face as pretty as a shiny apple and an ugly face as ugly as a pumpkin. Yvonne was the apple, and I was the pumpkin. She wore rainbow-colored beads in her corn-braids, and when she moved her head, they chinked against each other, the sound pearls made when being strung. Yvonne wore miniskirts and knee-hi stockings to match. She walked like a ballet dancer. Her skin was light, unlike most of the dark-skinned students in my class. She was class president, the captain of patrol, and won the Read-a-thon award for the most books read. And when Mr. Greer called on her to read aloud from Our Western Civilization, she had the prettiest lisp when saying her s-words. Aphrodite is the goddess of love. She was born when she rose out of the sea. Her Roman name is Venus. Everyone called her “Vonny,” an animal’s name, and I wanted to correct them, tell them that the “y” went in front of her name not after it, but I always plugged my ears, shook my head, and walked away.

  On Yvonne’s birthday, the class stayed inside for recess because Mr. and Mrs. Weaver brought us cupcakes, ice cream, streamers, and balloons for a party. Her father, a full-bearded dentist, had to duck in order to fit through the doorway. He hugged Yvonne, kissed her on the forehead, and pulled on her earlobe when wishing her a happy birthday. When she turned her back to him, he made rabbit ears behind her head and funny faces that made me laugh.

  I wished I was Yvonne and my father was a full-bearded dentist. Yvonne’s mother had freckles on her nose and wore tinted eyeglasses that made her look smart and important. She scooped ice cream into our paper bowls, telling us there was plenty for seconds. Yvonne decorated her mother with a necklace made of streamer links. I had once overheard my guidance counselor tell a parent over the telephone that the quality of the time spent with one’s child was more important than the quantity of time together. Yvonne and her mother looked as if they had both quality and quantity time. While we sat in our seats with ice cream and cupcake, I looked over at Yvonne’s mother and father, who were standing arm-in-arm near the doorway. They were watching their daughter at her seat receiving birthday wishes from her schoolmates.

  “Happy birthday, Vonny.”

  “Happy birthday, Vonny.”

  “Happy birthday, Vonny.”

  As her parents left, Yvonne’s mother kissed her on the eyes, and her father nudged her chin with his thumb. They shook hands with Mr. Greer, who looked like a little man next to them. He didn’t look the way that he did on the first day of fifth grade, when he told us to “fear Mr. Greer.” The three of them stood near the cake and ice cream table talking about Yvonne, and I wanted to hear. The two Chinese girls were at the blackboard playing a Chinese word game. Frank had chased Marcia into the closet behind the bulletin board. And the Iranian boys were chewing paper and throwing pencils down the radiator. I took my plate to the cupcake and ice cream table for more, and overheard Yvonne’s father tell Mr. Greer that Yvonne was going to find a beagle in
their front yard after school. As I was walking to my desk, Mr. Greer clapped his hands and announced that Vonny’s parents were leaving and we should thank them for the treats. We waved good-bye and screamed our gratitude.

  “This is for you,” said Lisa, and handed Yvonne a bottle of lotion with strawberries pictured on the label. They hugged each other, and Yvonne opened the bottle, took a sniff, dipped her finger through the opening, and rubbed some on her hands. Keith gave her a pink card almost the size of my notebook. She thanked him, but did not open it in front of the rest of us. I watched Yvonne and her table of friends from my seat and decided I would read her palm.

  “Yvonne, Happy Birthday,” I said in a hoarse voice, standing behind her. She looked over her shoulder and thanked me. As she was about to turn around, I quickly added, “Don’t you want to hear your birthday fortune? I know how to read palms.”

  Yvonne said she never had her palm read before and did not know what to do. I told her to hold still while I read her lines and give me her right hand because the left always lied. She turned her seat to face me, and I kneeled on the floor to read her palm. Her table mates gathered around us, and feeling her mounts, I began to tell Yvonne that her mount of Apollo was in constant motion, always moving, which meant she would be a dancer someday.

  “Do you like to dance?” I asked, and she smiled and nodded.

  Keith, who was watching us over Yvonne’s shoulder, laughed and said, “Everyone knows Von likes to dance.”

  Tracing her line of the heart, I told her that more than anything else in the whole world, she loved animals.

  “What kind?” asked Keith. I wanted to stand up, push his face away, and tell him: the kind with four legs and a tail, you don’t qualify. But I stood up, let Yvonne’s hand go, stepped back, and smiled. Those who had huddled around us asked, “What?”