A Long Stay in a Distant Land Page 2
Louis arrived at his father's house and found him sitting on the driveway, wearing a white T-shirt, gray sweats, and sandals.
"I have to do something to him." His father stood and walked back into the house. Louis followed. "You retiled the hallway."
"Took a few weeks," his father said.
"It looks nice." Louis walked into the living room. "You repainted the walls."
"Yeah."
The carpet had been replaced by dark brown hardwood.
"I shouldn't have called," his father said. "You can go home."
"You can't just call, tell me what you told me, and tell me to go home."
"I'm fine."
Louis was angry at Hersey's carelessness, but he had no desire to kill the man. What Hersey shouldn't have done was wait for Louis's father at the hospital, offer his apologies, address, and number, and say, "If there's anything I can do for you, I'll do it." He should have gone home.
"Sorry I woke you," Louis's father said.
"Say, 'I won't kill Hersey Collins.'"
His father said nothing.
"You never said you were driving to his house before," Louis said.
"I was trying to work myself up."
"Is my bed still here?"
"Yes."
"I'll sleep here tonight."
They got up for work the next morning, and Louis came back at four sharp to make sure his father returned soon after. They watched TV that evening, and repeated this pattern of work and TV until the end of the week, when he asked his father, "Do you still want to kill him?"
"Yes."
Another week passed.
Each time Louis asked the question, his father said, "Yes."
"If you say you won't drive to his house, even if you want to, I'll leave," Louis said. "I'll go back to my place."
"I don't want to lie."
"Don't you want this house back to yourself?"
His father didn't answer.
"Why do you want to do it? What good would it do?"
"It's like he cut off my right leg," his father said. "And now I'm hobbling around and he's walking fine with two good legs."
"A leg?" Louis asked. His father, at fifty-two, had thick thighs left over from a lifetime of cycling. Since the old man stopped exercising, his formerly sculpted quadriceps had softened into loose mounds of flesh. A film of dust covered the stationary bike in the garage.
Pastor Elkin called to invite them back to church, and it was fortunate that Louis's father screened his calls. Pastor Elkin or a church member would speak through the answering machine:
"Just saying hi."
"We miss you. Would love to have you back."
"Sonny, this is Arnold. Please don't feel bad about slapping me. Nobody blames you for it."
Louis and his father took to raiding the fridge at one or two in the morning. They'd grunt, hand the other a loaf of bread or a box of cereal, and then retreat to their rooms. In bed, Louis played his Nintendo video games or read comic books starring Godzilla and Gamera. These were childhood things he'd dug up from the corner of the garage, where his parents had hidden them because of their Japanese origins.
His parents had disliked all things Japanese because the government of Japan, they said, refused to admit to killing ten million Chinese during World War II. And the Japanese, his mother said, filched thousands of Chinese characters for their kanji. "Half their language is ours," she'd said. "They should call it Chinese Two."
But she'd never had a problem with Doug Inouye, who'd cut and permed her hair for over ten years. The friend she'd visited most often had been Sheila Yamada. She'd often said of these two, "They're not Japanese. They don't even speak it." And that had been an important distinction to her. Because they didn't speak Japanese, Doug Inouye and Mrs. Yamada were good people. Because she could speak Cantonese and Mandarin, and read and write Chinese, Louis's mother felt entitled to as much anger as Mrs. Wah, who'd lost her parents under the Japanese occupation.
Louis's mother met Mrs. Wah during a three-week tour of southern China. She was the guide, and would tell Louis's mother during meals or on the bus what she thought of the Japanese. "If I hadn't already been in Hong Kong, I'd be dead," Mrs. Wah said. She talked about how the Japanese soldiers had tied people to stakes and flayed them with swords. She talked about Japanese doctors who'd vivisected captured civilians, slicing open their chests and prying their ribs apart. She talked about Unit 731, which had detonated grenades inches from people to test the effects of grenades detonated inches from people.
Louis's mother usually brought up Japanese atrocities at dinner, and his father would say, "No talking. You two are making me lose my appetite."
"Everybody's done something to everybody else," Louis would say.
"Example?" his mother would ask.
"The Mongols invaded Japan in the thirteenth century."
"They didn't dissect live people."
"The Chinese invaded and occupied Vietnam for a thousand years."
"They didn't slice out their lungs and livers while they screamed."
"The Americans wiped out the Indians with diseases that made them puke their intestines."
"They didn't—"
"Dinner's for eating," his father would say. "Children are starving in Mozambique right now. They would love to have food. Shut up!"
It'd disappointed his parents greatly when Louis began watching the subtitled Japanese family drama Love Hurts each Sunday afternoon. Passing through the living room on their way to the yard or garage, they would urge him to change the channel.
"Turn to The Three Stooges. It's a better show.
"Go outside.
"Play with your friends.
"Make some friends, then."
They found things to do during the show. They took walks around the neighborhood. His mother tended plants in the garden and his father sat in the garage, studying the water heater like he'd one day fix it if it ever broke.
The show's main character was a twelve-year-old boy named Toshi who learned life lessons in each episode: Grandpapa's sick and can't make the neighborhood go tournament? Yoshi! No problem. Toshi puts on Grandpapa's robes, wears a fake beard, and plays in his stead, winning a brand-new pair of sandals. But he has to give them back because he lied. Lying's not acceptable.
After Toshi learned his lesson, he was punished by his father offscreen. This happened toward the end of every episode. Armed with a bamboo stick, Toshi's father would lead his son into the boy's bedroom. The screen would fade out and then fade back to reveal the two fishing by a river or washing the dishes, smiles on their faces.
Arigato, Papa! Thank you for teaching me not to dress up like Grandpapa, and for showing me that deception never achieves a good result.
It'd never occurred to Louis before he started watching the show that one could be grateful for and excited about getting smacked on the ass. But there was Toshi getting beat and loving it, always smiling afterward as if it'd been the most delightful thing that'd ever happened to him.
When Louis was being reprimanded by his parents, when he wanted to annoy them, or when he wanted to show them he was nothing like them, he'd speak the language of the show. He'd combine words, mix together parts of different words, and speak a tongue that was as much his as it was Japanese.
At the dinner table:
"Why a C plus in geography? We bought you a new globe. Forty-five dollars."
"Nani?"
"In English or Chinese. And tell me why a C plus in geography? Well? Name two countries that border Libya."
"Yakisobadeshita."
"Stop it."
f( Warewarewa. Warewaremashita."
"You're asking for it." His mother would pick up the PingPong paddle she kept constantly near. She did not play PingPong.
"Arigato!"
Louis never enjoyed the punishments as much as Toshi. Speaking Japanese meant his mother whacking him with the paddle, resulting in a degree of pain that was not worth speaking Japanese, badly or otherwise.
Toshi was an idiot for giving thanks after being punished. Righteous punishment did not exist, because the snap of a wooden paddle against one's flesh, endured for whatever reason, whether for the sake of education or correction, was not right. It hurt like hell.
When Hersey Collins said, "If there's anything I can do for you, I'll do it," he wasn't volunteering to be stabbed in the heart.
His father needed to remember, and remember correctly. Mirla Lum had been a math professor at Cal State Fullerton, a Baptist who'd wanted to go to Heaven, a daughter, a wife, and a mother.
Lying in his old bed in his father's house, Louis's chest tightened. "Warewarewa," he said. "Warewarewa," he said louder, recalling the sting of the paddle, the blue veins on his mother's unfortunately strong hands. "Warewarewa!" He saw her face full of anger and life.
The hallway floor creaked. The boards groaned under the mass of his father's body, twenty pounds overweight.
A knock.
Louis got out of bed. He opened the door and looked his father in the eyes.
"You okay?" his father asked.
"She's not a fucking leg."
A Relentless Rain of Steel Death
(2002)
Louis's family, based in Orange County since Grandpa Melvin and Grandma Esther migrated south from San Francisco over forty years ago, had recurring problems with death.
It seemed that every time Louis saw his relatives, it was to make burial arrangements for another Lum who'd passed away suddenly, unexpectedly.
The rash of deaths Louis attributed to his grandfather, whom he knew mostly from a framed black-and-white photo that sat in his father's bedroom. Grandpa was a man in his mid-thirties with a black suit, a broad square face, and a thin, pointed nose.
According to Grandma, Grandpa had fought in World War II. Amid the scattered cinder blocks of demolished French towns, he'd unleashed a relentless rain of steel death with his U.S. Army-issued Browning M1919A4. Grandma's exact words had been "Grandpa served in France." Louis's father had said, based on what Grandma had told him when he was a child, "Grandpa liberated French villages and fed starving children. He shot lots of Nazis."
Louis knew his Grandma had meant "relentless rain of steel death." That was how he'd described it in a twenty-page family history report he'd written in the seventh grade, and that was how he'd always seen it—a hail of machine-gun bullets tearing flesh and bone and Grandpa's finger at the trigger.
Grandpa had violated the fundamental law that one should not kill another. He'd had a choice. He could have chosen not to join the war and not to shoot people.
For every man Grandpa had killed, Death had designated a Lum to be picked off. Death was a very real being who shared Louis's father's desire for equality through revenge, forever seeking an eye for an eye. In Louis's mind, Death looked like Grandpa from that black-and-white photo.
Louis's cousin Mick was skeptical. "No such thing as a family death curse," he'd said. "And what do you mean by a death curse? We're all going to die anyway."
"We're all going to die from unnatural causes," Louis said.
"Bullshit."
"Bruce Lee and his son were cursed. They died in their prime."
"They were unlucky, like our family. That's all. If you keep thinking you're going to fall down a flight of stairs, it'll happen."
"That might happen," Louis said.
"It won't happen if you don't think about it. Stop thinking about dying, jackass. Think about what you're going to have for lunch tomorrow."
"That's what you think about?" Louis asked.
"I know exactly what I'm eating tomorrow," Mick said.
"What is it?"
"A salad, no dressing. An orange. Two quarter-pound cheeseburgers, pickles and tomatoes only. Two glasses of water, each with a slice of lime."
Louis never discussed the curse with anyone except Mick. He didn't think his father and grandmother would appreciate him placing the burden of death on Grandpa, but he knew Death watched him each day through crosshairs. Even now he waited at least seven seconds before crossing a street on a green, never ordered anything with meat at fast food restaurants, and checked multiple times to make sure his stovetops were off before leaving the apartment or going to bed.
He knew he could be struck down at any time. He had a will. He had, along with each member of his family except Mick—who refused to believe he'd die before the age of seventy—a life insurance policy.
And he always remembered the Lums who'd passed away in his lifetime:
—December 2001, Mom, fifty-one, head-on collision with Hersey Collins's car;
—May 1994, his cousin Connie, twelve, complications from E. coli bacteria found in a bacon cheeseburger purchased at a fast food restaurant;
—August 1993, Aunt Julie, twenty-nine, stomach cancer;
—October 1992, his cousin Will, sixteen, heatstroke during high school football practice;
—March 1989, Uncle Larry, forty, fell off a cliff in Mammoth while skiing;
—June 1987, Grandpa Melvin, sixty-two, struck by an ice cream truck while crossing the street.
Each year the Lums convened for a family meeting. The specific date varied depending on whether a person had died or what day Grandma deemed appropriate for a gathering. She often picked a day in the spring, when she felt the weather was particularly sunny and warm.
"When is it not sunny and warm here?" Uncle Larry once asked. "Let's meet in October next year. I don't do anything in October."
Grandma's dining room had beige carpet and bare beige walls. They'd sit at the dining table under a chandelier that resembled an inverted pincushion. She often played music before the start of each meeting as she waited for late arrivals to file in. Louis and his parents usually arrived on time, hoping everyone else would also, allowing for a quick meeting. Uncle Larry and his family always arrived late.
While waiting, they'd eat the food Grandma had prepared, usually egg rolls and fried turnip cakes with diced onions and shrimp, while Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday sang through the living room speakers.
In between songs, she'd encourage them to eat more and Louis's parents would compliment her on how beautifully she'd decorated the room. Louis would eat and drink while Lady Day's "Everything I Have Is Yours" or "I Hadn't Anyone Till You" played. The music served its primary purpose, standing in for conversation and filling the room while Louis's father whispered in his mother's ear, "What time is it? It's only been five minutes? You eat another turnip cake."
Grandma used the meetings to make sure each family member was in good health. She'd ask any combination of the following questions: "Have you had a serious illness this past year? Are you ill now? Are you happy? Is there anything I can help with? Is there anything you want that you don't have or can't get?"
She'd stare at her grandchildren until they said, "Grandma, you're making me nervous. I'm not sick."
At the meeting to discuss Connie's funeral arrangements, Aunt Helen arrived to the sounds of a harp being played over a waterfall. This was during Grandma's two-year nature period, when she listened to nothing but instrumental music accompanied by the sounds of nature, which included chirping crickets, rustling leaves, and rushing streams.
"Why the damn racket?" Aunt Helen asked.
"I'll turn it down," Grandma said. After that meeting she stopped playing music and Louis waited in silence for the rest of his relatives to arrive.
Following Connie's death, Aunt Helen officially dropped Lum off her name, saying to Grandma, "This family is cursed," to which Louis silently said, Amen.
But she showed up every year, and this Louis interpreted as a sign of respect for Grandma or the fact that Aunt Helen didn't have anywhere else to go. Both her parents were dead, she had no siblings, she was a widow, and she had just one remaining child. He didn't blame her for changing her name.
Aunt Helen asked Mick to change his name as well, but he refused. "There's no curse," he said. "Change your name back to Lum."
/> Louis knew what Mick wouldn't acknowledge, that changing a name would serve no good purpose. Death had a long memory. He knew who was who.
Louis was born of Sonny, who was born of Melvin, machine gunner in World War II. This was his history, as true as fact, as true as the fact that he was now stuck in his father's house. His lease had expired and he'd moved back in with the old man, who wouldn't stop thinking about killing Hersey Collins.
They didn't talk. They were mired in a mutual silent treatment that began after he had told his father two months earlier that his mother wasn't a fucking leg. They avoided words whenever possible. A grunt uttered deep from his father's chest meant "I'm home. How was your day?"
Louis's "Ehhh" meant "All right, thanks for asking."
Louis's "Huhff" meant "I'm cooking dinner now. Would you like some?"
His father tapping a cup with a spoon meant "I'm having some juice. You want me to pour you a cup, too?"
Louis rapping the dinner table with his knuckles meant "Dinner's ready. I said dinner's ready!"
His father pounding a fist against the kitchen counter meant "You left the tap running! Do you want to use up all the water in southern California? Why do you turn on the tap and then leave the kitchen? And you pounded the counter on me for doing the same thing yesterday, after I poured you a cup of juice!"
According to Grandma, the first Lum family meeting took place in 1943, when Grandpa announced he was enlisting in the army.
Preparations for the latest Lum family meeting began when the phone rang on a Friday night in August 2002. Louis and his father were eating cereal and watching TV. They were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, separated by the space of one whole cushion. A rap music video was playing, and Louis and his father let the phone ring.
Louis was first exposed to rap when he was ten. His mother had gone out one Saturday morning and his father had said, "Turn off those cartoons. They'll destroy your mind. I want you to listen to something. It's an important part of our culture and speaks of the oppression of colored people in this country."
He retrieved a stash of vinyl records from the garage and carefully slipped one out of its case. He wiped both sides of the record with a tissue, then placed it gingerly on the player.