Same Sun Here Page 8

  We saw Mai leaving the library. She has an iPod. I told Kiku I wanted one, too, and he pinched me really hard. When Mum went to the bathroom, he said that Mummy-Daddy can’t afford to get us those and if I said I wanted one, it would make them feel bad. I hadn’t thought of that before. I hope I didn’t hurt Mum’s feelings.

  I should go finish my homework but I want to tell you about one more thing. Something weird happened Monday night, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Mrs. Lau was at the senior center and I was sitting on her couch with Cuba, watching the news. I pressed mute for the commercials, like I always do, and heard the sound of a woman crying. I couldn’t tell where she was because the sound was coming down the shaftway where three different buildings connect. I have never heard anyone cry like that before. It sounded like she was dying. Every time there was a commercial and I pressed MUTE, I heard her. She never stopped. It went on for a half hour. I kept looking at the clock. I was just about to call 911 and tell them someone was hurt when Mrs. Lau came home. I ran over and told her what was going on, and she took off her coat and held it in her arms and listened to the woman. Then she shook her head and said, “Someone she love betray her. Her heart feel like squashed tomato.” She sat on the couch and scratched Cuba’s belly and talked to him in Cantonese.

  Isn’t that a funny thing to say? She seemed so sure of what was wrong with the woman. I hope Mrs. Lau has not ever cried like that. I hope Mum hasn’t either. I am still afraid that woman died, but Mrs. Lau says she is positive that she is alive and walking around with a squashed-tomato heart.

  I hope you are making good scrimmage and I hope you will start up soon.

  Happy early Thanksgiving to you and your family.

  Sincerely yours,

  Meena

  7 December 2008

  Dear Meena,

  Here are all the bad things that have happened since I wrote you last:

  Last week, my mother had such a terrible migraine that she had a fit. She was rolling around in the bed, screaming with pain, and when Mamaw went in to try to help her she jumped up and knocked Mamaw down by accident (she hit her head HARD on the end table but she’s OK). By then I had ran in there. She was in so much pain that she knocked everything off the dresser and the chest, then she went to the window and TORE the curtains off the hooks. She ran to the closet and started ripping all of her clothes off the hangers, and finally she fell right down in a heap and put her hands to either side of her head. She pulled out a big hunk of her hair, then screamed from the pain of doing that, too. That’s when Mamaw made me get out.

  I went into the living room and sat down on the couch, and this is hard for me to admit — so you better not tell ANYbody, not even your brother — but I sat down there and cried. I couldn’t help it, I was so afraid. Now, you know that I trust you with my life, or I would not tell this. I thought she was going to die, or that she had cracked up and would never be the same. I’m still not sure if she will be.

  Before long Mamaw came out CARRYING my mother. I couldn’t believe it. It made me think of you, hauling that bicycle up all those stairs. Mom has lost a lot of weight, though. I hadn’t seen her in the full light of day in what seems like forever. She looked so little in Mamaw’s arms. This made me want to cry even more, but something in me knew that I had to be strong now, too, so I got up and opened the door for Mamaw, then the car door. Then we drove her to the hospital. On the way there Mom rolled all around the backseat, screaming and crying. “I can’t stand it!” she kept saying, over and over.

  Mamaw reached over and put her hand on top of mine and said, “It’ll be all right. Not soon, but eventually.” Then she tightened her fingers around my hand and said, “Don’t fret, buddy.”

  But I am still fretting, because Mom has been in the hospital ever since. And I heard Mamaw on the phone, telling Dad that it could have been an aneurysm. I looked that up on the Internet and that’s real bad. I’m awful worried.

  The other bad thing is that I got into a fistfight at basketball practice, and now I’m kicked off the team for the first game of the season, which is against our archenemy, Blankenship Middle School. That really, really sucks. But I didn’t have any other choice but to fight Sam Brock, who is on the team, too. He got mad because we were playing Shirts and Skins in practice, scrimmaging against each other, and my team was beating the fire out of his. We were twelve points ahead when he fouled me. He accused me of charging him, though, and one thing led to another and he got so mad that his whole body turned red and he was shouting so loud that the whole rest of the gym went quiet and finally he called me a tree-hugging faggot.

  His father works for the coal company that is mining Town Mountain, and Sam has had it out for me ever since I brought up the mining in science class that day.

  Mamaw was fit to be tied when she heard what he called me. “You mean they let him use that word and didn’t suspend HIM from playing?” I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her so mad. I was the one who got suspended because I threw the first punch, I told her. “But he said that awful word,” Mamaw said.

  I told her I had once heard the principal use that word himself, when he told the coach that he better not let “that other team of faggots” beat us. He laughed like it was hilarious, but Coach just looked at him. As soon as I told Mamaw this, I regretted it, because I was afraid she’d go down to the school again. I know you are supposed to always stand up for what you believe in, but she can’t be running down to the school every single time somebody does something wrong. Because she’d STAY down there if I told her every little thing.

  That was when Mamaw just sat down on the couch and put her hands over her face. “Lord have mercy,” she said. “What kind of world are we living in?” I thought she might be about to cry herself, her voice was so choked up. But she didn’t. “So full of hate,” she said, and sat there a long while, shaking her head, like she wouldn’t accept it, like it couldn’t be that way.

  There is one thing about it, though: Sam is all bark and no bite. He got in one good hit, which busted my mouth. But I busted his mouth AND his nose AND gave him a black eye.

  Mamaw grounded me for hitting him, though. After she had sat there and grieved awhile, she got up and had her mad-at-me tone. “And what about YOU, young man? What did I tell you, not more than a few weeks ago, about hitting people?” She put her hands on her hips. Her eyes looked like blue marbles, hard and shiny. “I’ve always been real proud of you, River, but you shouldn’t have hit that boy. Hitting someone is the last thing you should do.”

  I asked her what I was supposed to do, then?

  She was quiet for a long time, thinking, and for a minute I thought she’d reconsider and agree with me. But then she said, “The best thing would have been to have told him he was a stupid, ignorant boy, and then walked away. Sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe in, and then walk away.”

  “But sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe in and fight back,” I said. Mamaw looked at me for a minute, almost like she didn’t even see me before her, and then she turned around and went into the kitchen and started peeling potatoes.

  About your secret (which I will never tell another soul, never): what is rent control, exactly? I don’t believe we have anything like that here. I looked it up on the Internet, and the best I can tell is that it means people who have rent-controlled apartments only have them if their family members were living there when rent control started. Right? And that only her family can live there legally. Right? I’m not sure I understand.

  It only feels wrong because you all have to lie. But Mamaw says that sometimes the government and other people are so crooked that you have to tell a little white lie for the greater good. Maybe that’s what this is?

  And listen, Meena: I would want to be your best friend no matter what. You are the best person I know. But I’m sorry, I still don’t like to talk about shaving your legs and all that. This is something we will have to agree to disagree on. (That’s a saying my father
used to say all the time when he would be on the phone, talking to contractors who hadn’t paid him yet.) It’s not about you being a girl and me being a boy. It’s just that I think anything to do with hair is gross, man.

  Sometimes you write things in your letters that I thought nobody had ever thought before, except for me. But then there it is in your letter. Like when you said that the city and the mountains have different moods. I don’t know about cities, but I do know about mountains, and I know for a fact that they have different moods.

  Today, as soon as I got up, Rufus and I went walking in the woods and went all the way out to the cliffs so I could look at the mountains and see what they were doing over at the mine. Rufus would stay right beside my leg so that I could reach down and cap my hand around his head while we walked, then he would zoom off into the woods like he was tracking a rabbit or possum. Then he’d slink back out of the brush and walk alongside me quietly for a while, then zoom off again. He’s funny that way.

  I tried my best to not look at the mine. Since it is Sunday, they weren’t working, so it was quiet. I could hear everything, I felt like. Even though it was cold today, there were lots of cardinals calling to each other in the trees. Their song is “Birdie, birdie, birdie!” which I think is real interesting, for a bird to say that. Maybe that’s why they are called birds in the first place, because of that song? I don’t know.

  Anyway, there were the birds and the cold wind, and I know this sounds crazy, but it was like I could hear the mountains breathing. They were all spread out below me, back behind town, and all around, too. It seemed to me they were resting today, which is what you are supposed to do on the Sabbath. Even though we don’t go to church anymore, I know that you are supposed to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. Daddy is real upset that Mamaw doesn’t take me to church anymore, but she says the woods are as holy as any church and that I’m in them plenty. Mamaw reads the Bible more than anybody I know.

  Anyway, the mood of the mountains today was resting and peaceful and sleepy. Maybe it’s the only day of the week that they’re not listening to Town Mountain being torn down. On those days I bet they are nervous wrecks.

  I believe in telepathy. I bet we could have telepathy. I am going to think something real hard, right now. It is 6:34 in the evening on December 7. Maybe when you get this letter you will remember hearing a message from me at this time. Let me know.

  Sometimes I think I have telepathy with the mountains.

  I would love to see that statue of Gandhi. We learned about him in world civ.

  I have not heard M.I.A. You said that was a “she.” What kind of girl is named something like M.I.A.? Is it pronounced Mia? Weird, how it has the periods between the letters, like it stands for Missing In Action. My favorite Beatles song is “Here Comes the Sun,” but that’s a secret. I only listen to it when I’m alone. I’ll look up the Clash on YouTube the next time I get online.

  That’s cool about the citizenship class you went to. I can’t imagine seeing all those people from different countries together in one room. Here everybody is American, except for Dr. Patel and his wife. Most people are white, too, but there are a few black people and some Cherokees.

  I haven’t even told you about Thanksgiving. The main thing about it is that Dad didn’t get to come home. He said he had to work, and that if he didn’t come home for Thanksgiving he’d get to come home for an extra two days at Christmas. I thought he’d come home early because Mom is in the hospital, but he said on the telephone that he couldn’t be of any help to her while she was in there, so he might as well work. I wish he had come home to see her. Used to be when she got a headache, he would make her stretch out on the couch and put her head in his lap. He’d rub her head until she said it felt better, then he’d lean down and kiss her on each closed eye, and after that she’d be well. She said he had a magic touch. And now he won’t even come see her when she’s in the hospital.

  He is supposed to be here in two weeks. I am looking forward to seeing him, but for some reason I am dreading it, too. I don’t know why, and it makes me feel bad to say that. But it’s the truth.

  I’ve been meaning to ask you, how come you always write out GANDHIJI instead of just GANDHI? In our world civ book is is spelled Gandhi.

  I liked your thankful list. I would do one but I’m in a weird mood. I’ve been kind of sad ever since Mom got put in the hospital. But one thing I am thankful for is knowing you. I’ll write you sooner next time. Please forgive me for taking so long. Write me as soon as you can.

  Sincerely yours,

  River Dean Justice

  P.S. The other thing is that they found some kind of chemicals in Lost Creek, so Mamaw has called the government about it. But they haven’t come out to check it yet. It makes me sick when I think about good little Lost Creek being polluted like that. I just hope that someday it’ll be clean again. Mamaw says we can’t fish there anymore because the bluegill are probably poison now. I hate to think about this.

  December 5, 2008

  Dear River,

  I hope you are having a nice day. The weather here has been very cold.

  It is hard to write this. But Ms. Bledsoe said I should get my feelings out.

  Dadi has died.

  I have said it out loud three times but this is the first time I’ve written it. Every night since we found out I have dreamed of me and Dadi walking past Jabberkhet, up to Flag Hill. We sit under the banj trees and lean into each other and we don’t say anything. We watch the fog drift. I can hear her breathing and I can smell the amla in her hair. Once, in the dream, she laughed. She sounded like a little bird. When I woke up, I could still hear her laugh in my ears and I felt happy. But then I remembered.

  She died on 20 November but we didn’t find out till 23 November when my cousin Anjali called Daddy at work. She’d gone to see Dadi and found her lying on the floor with a fever. Dadi had been grinding corn, which is very hard work. She didn’t recognize Anjali, kept calling her Mee-Mee. Oh, River. She was looking for me.

  She was always there when I needed her. She always took care of me, even when my own parents and brother left and went to America. It was Dadi who loved me and fed me and made sure I was not alone. But I wasn’t there for her when she needed me. I am feeling so bad.

  Anjali took her to Landour Hospital, but she needed medicines they didn’t have, so Anjali hired a car for Dehradun. It is a very long drive to the city. Anjali said Dadi kept her face pressed against the window all the way down to the valley. She was looking at the mountains. She was saying good-bye. At the hosptial, Dadi went unconscious. Anjali held her on her lap because she didn’t want to put her on the floor. Anjali is skinny like me. They sat like that for seven hours and Dadi died in Anjali’s lap, and only then did the doctor come. He said Dadi had an infection that had gone into her heart. She was 58 years old.

  I keep thinking about Gopi, our neighbor’s cow. She is pretty, with a long white tail, and she is very spoiled. Every day she waits for Dadi at the corner of Char Dukkan and they walk together to Sister’s Bazaar. She will not understand why Dadi doesn’t come. She will be standing there, swishing her tail and waiting for Dadi. She will have to walk home alone.

  We were not able to go to the funeral. It is too much money for the plane, and we would not reach there in time because it is such a long journey. Poor Daddy is having a lot of trouble. We have not seen him yet, but when I talked to him on the phone, he could not stop crying. I have never heard him cry before. It scared me. Dadi is his mother. I cannot remember if I told you that before. Mum knew Dadi the whole of her life, too. She was their next-door neighbor, and Dadi was the one who encouraged Mum to be a teacher. She always said, “Teachers are the seed.” The thing that makes it harder for Mummy-Dadddy-Kiku is that they have not seen Dadi in nine years.

  I used to want to be a poet but now I want to be a teacher. That is what Dadi wanted to do more than anything in the world. She learned reading and writing, but it made her sad that she could
n’t do it as well as she cut grass or cooked or climbed a mountain. She said she would never be able to do it without thinking, the way I did. One time when I got a bad grade at school, Dadi told me how much it hurt that she was not able to go to school as a child. All her brothers were allowed to go but because she was a girl, her father said she didn’t need to learn. She went with her mother into the forest and worked. She used to try to read her brother’s books, but she could not understand them.

  Once when Dadi was pregnant with my uncle, a man cheated her out of 300 rupees. The man took her money and gave her a piece of paper. He said it was a prescription that would make her baby strong. But when she brought the paper to the pharmacy, they said it wasn’t real. All the paper said was, “This woman is stupid.” Dadi had kept the paper all those years and she showed it to me. She said she was cheated because she could not read or write. She said she did not want something like that to happen to me. I have never gotten a bad grade since she told me that.

  I am angry. For many days I was sad. But now I am angry. I am angry at Anjali for only visiting Dadi once a week. I am angry at Landour Hospital for not having medicine. I am angry at Mummy-Daddy for moving to New York. I am angry at New York for being a place people want to come to. I am angry that Dadi died in a city waiting for a doctor. I am angry at myself. I knew something was wrong when she didn’t write a letter that week. She must have been sick then. I should have asked to borrow Mrs. Lau’s phone. I should have called Anjali then.