by Jun Lin The blood tastes warm in his mouth. The boy watches, wide-eyed as his father’s fists unclench. He marvels at the hand that turns like a mountain turning over, the sharp ridges of his knuckles disappearing around the curve to reveal the wide warm plains of his calloused palms. It will take two good strides for his father to close the distance between them, he thinks. But before he can finish that thought or swallow his own blood he is swept into a crushing embrace.
Face pressed hard against his father’s stomach, he can smell alcohol off his dirty shirt. His father says something, but he cannot hear it over the ringing in his ears. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words spill out faster than the gush of dark liquid that oozes out of his cheek. He catches it with a hand. Thin fingers uncurl, revealing the small hard object that lay singular in the bloody center of his palm. A tooth. He meets his father’s gaze. The look in his eyes is apologetic. “It will grow back.” Father says. He knows it won’t. But as always, he says nothing. +++ There are earthquakes in his home. When it happens he knows what to do, and yet every time he feels as if he doesn’t. He makes a run for his parents’ bedroom like his mother had taught him, where the big bed is pushed against the corner. The ceiling may collapse but the corners will be safe for him. The walls will stand and build a tiny space around him and protect him from the falling debris. And so he pulls his knees close to his chest, making himself as small as possible. The safety zone is tiny, so he must be even tinier. In the distance he hears the plates fall from their shelves and clatter to the ground. He hears the chairs fall over and break their legs. Glasses tumble over and bottles shatter against the kitchen floor. The whole bed is shaking, and he is afraid that it will break. He shuts his eyes and wishes that the earthquake will end soon. +++ There are good days. They spend the weekends mostly watching TV. Variety shows and news channels and lukewarm beer. He thinks that they are boring, but he watches anyway. Sometimes there are baseball game replays. Those are his favorite because his father likes baseball and so does he. They eat snacks while his father drinks. In between the commercials he prods at the empty space between his teeth with his tongue, half-expecting it to close up. But it never does, and his mother finds out. She holds a trembling hand over her mouth, covering it as if it were her own tooth that she had lost. He wants to tell her that it doesn’t hurt anymore, but he doesn’t because tears well up in his eyes when he sees her cry. +++ “You can crush my skull and break my bones, but you will not hurt my son.” In the dim light he sees his father’s back hunched over the kitchen table. He sees the pile of papers spread out across the tabletop. He sees also cigarettes and whiskey. His father turns suddenly and sees him. The floorboards creak when he takes a step back. He wants to tell his father that everything will be ok. That he can still come to see him at the school play next Friday. That he can go visit him in his new home and he can come visit him too. The words are caught in his throat. And when he swallows they are gone. +++ He is nineteen when his father dies. The mourning for the dead is all but silent. Praying beads clatter against one another as monks recite ancient verses. The sounds of clanging cymbals and blowing horns seep into the yellow tent. Muffled whispers pass beneath the coffin like an undercurrent. Sitting above them all is a framed picture of the man who was his father. The relatives talk about him. What kind of man he was.They are talking about the stories with the broken glass, the ones with the bottles and bruises. He looks to his father’s photograph as they offer their condolences, as if pleading for him to prove them wrong. But the man in the frame looks straight ahead, as if there is something solemn and important before him that the rest of the world does not see. The boy does not see it, either. He wishes he did. +++ His fondest memory of them is that time he got lost in the department store. He remembers walking up to the information desk, and the desk is so high he can’t even see the lady’s face. He asks her if she can tell his parents that he’s lost. And then there they are, coming down from the escalator, Father and Mother, running towards him, crying and smiling, the three of them together in a big warm embrace. He remembers the earthquakes that shook their home. He remembers the white mountain ridges that turned themselves into soft warm plains. He remembers the dark red river that flowed over his lips. But this, too, he remembers. This is the story that he will talk about when they ask about his father. What kind of man he was. And all of it together is how he wants to remember him. a
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May 2024
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