Kay's Lucky Coin Variety Page 2

  Chapter 2

  My mother was forever complaining about some physical ailment. “I’m a sick woman,” she would remind me any time I forgot to practise the piano or, even worse, brought home the forbidden B on a test or an assignment. “Stomach ulcers and a bad knee, the doctors say, from working too hard and climbing so many stairs on my poor leg.” Her right leg, which she’d broken falling into a well in Korea when she was sixteen years old, had never healed properly. So it was a huge mistake to tell her I was planning to become a writer—worse, a poet. It wasn’t even my idea. It was Mr. Allen’s. He’d been my grade-nine English teacher, and I got him again in grade eleven. “You should study creative writing. You have a flair for it,” he said. It was easy for me to agree; I had the biggest crush on him. My friends and I thought the photos of him in the school yearbook were good enough to grace the cover of Tiger Beat magazine alongside other guys we had a crush on like Shaun Cassidy and Mark Harmon. I’d even begun to keep a separate notebook of all the words Mr. Allen used in class that I didn’t know, although I wondered when I’d ever use words like visceral, superfluous, or enthrall.

  “If you only knew just how many packs of cigarettes, bags of milk, and thousands of newspapers we had to sell,” my mother said, shaking her head. I could see she was lost in her usual world of regrets. “Look around.” She gestured at the shelves crowded with supplies. “We sacrificed everything to come here. Do you think I enjoy working sixteen hours a day, people thinking I’m stupid because I can’t speak English? No, you’re going to make something of yourself here.” She stood up from her stool behind the counter. As she pressed her palm into her lower back, she straightened it slowly as if it were a struggle.

  My mother saw any small act of defiance, any questioning of her authority, as a betrayal, a deliberate attempt to shatter the dream. My parents had never taken a vacation, not even to visit relatives back home, though they faithfully sent money to support their parents. None of her family members or friends in Korea would believe working in a variety store could be so demanding and even dangerous. My family cringed each time the newspapers wrote about store robberies or deadly shootings, all too aware we were easy targets, especially at night.

  “Sometimes I feel like a sitting duck,” Mrs. Cha told my mother. Her family owned a store in Regent Park, considered one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in Toronto. “It’s only a matter of time before someone blows my head off or my heart explodes waiting for it to happen.”

  “Ai-goo-cham-neh!” my mother had said. “That’s silly talk. We’ll both grow old and have our sons take care of us. They’ll give us many grandsons and make every sacrifice worth it.”

  “At least you’ll be free of that expectation,” Josh joked to me. “You’ll go on and marry some white guy whose parents won’t care.”

  Knowing he was burdened with such an obligation, I wanted to hug him as I’d seen so many families on television do whenever they were overcome with emotion. But our family didn’t hug.

  Josh had calculated my parents would have to sell roughly 32,102 packs of cigarettes, 4,570 boxes of condoms, and 266,678 copies of the Toronto Star to put a degree in my hands. He’d even determined we had to sell 889 Elvis Presley ceramic-bust piggy banks. Prominently displayed in our store window, they were hugely popular with the drive-by traffic. We were always amazed people would take the time to stop, find parking, and pay for something so tacky, and so incredibly overpriced.

  Unlike me, Josh had lots of Korean friends as well as Canadian ones, and moved in and out of both circles with ease. He took tae-kwon-do lessons and watched dated Korean soap operas on VHS video. At the same time, he spent what little free time he had at the arcades with his non-Korean friends and a blonde girl named Tillie everyone thought was his girlfriend.

  The only time Josh ever raised his voice at me was when he walked into our apartment and heard me plucking away on his guitar. The fact that my parents had paid close to five hundred dollars for his prized possession meant it was officially hands-off. It rested on a stand by his bed like a giant trophy. Josh took pride in telling everyone the Simon & Patrick guitar was “Canadian,” because it had been made by hand in a small village in Quebec. Like the artisan who had given life to his beloved instrument, Josh handled it with the greatest care. The more he played it, the fuller and richer it resonated. There was something about the guitar’s sound and cedar-gloss finish that made me want to touch it and play it too. On the days he knew I’d have friends over, Josh put it in its case and placed it safely away in the closet.

  When I told my mother I wanted guitar lessons, she frowned and said, “But you’re a girl. If you practised like you should, you’d think the piano was just as good as the guitar.”

  * * *

  Like all Korean girls, I took piano lessons once a week. Even back in Korea, I’d taken lessons. Piano was the choice instrument, followed by the violin. It was considered essential for a girl as young as three or four to study music as a sign of her grace and the family’s ability to afford the finer things in life. To get to the Royal Conservatory of Music on Bloor Street, I had to take the Queen streetcar east, and then ride the subway north. Because there was nothing to look out at during the ride, I floated in and out of other people’s conversations, hoping to get inspiration for a story. I discreetly wrote down bits of conversations in notebooks. It was the best way to get authentic dialogue.

  “I don’t get it. Is it a girl’s name or a boy’s name?” a woman asked. I looked over to see a plain-looking white woman with short hair and big silver hoops in her ears. “Wouldn’t you want a name that would show the difference?” she asked. The woman next to her, who I guessed was Chinese, shrugged as she searched for something in her bag. Her long black hair fell over her face and spilled into her belongings, which clearly annoyed her. She tossed the strands aside and said, “You might not be able to tell if it’s some ethnic name either, so what’s the diff?” She pulled out a pair of oversized designer sunglasses, smiled, and added, “It’s just a name.” The train stopped, and they got off.

  As the train pulled out of the station and into the tunnel, I stared out into the subway dimness and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. My parents used to delight in telling people I was nameless for weeks after being born, as my grandfather consulted with ancestral spirits over the right name. A name, like a picture, was worth a thousand words. It was a single-word poem that defined a person. I was only four years old when I told my mother I hated my name. She scolded me. “You have a beautiful name. Names must be treated as sacred. Your reputation will one day be built on it.” When Josh was born a year later, twice as much effort went into finding his name.

  But in the end, both of us would lose our carefully chosen Korean names.

  * * *

  “They need new names,” the principal said. My mother, my brother, and I were in his office. I was about to turn six years old and registering at a Canadian school for the first time. A timid young woman, whom we didn’t know, translated for us. “It’ll help them fit in. Their teachers would never be able to say a name like this.” The woman pointed to my name, Yu-Rhee, and to my brother’s name, Chun-Ha, on our official entry papers. My mother was silent. I was afraid to look at her face, although I could easily picture her jaws locked, her eyes downcast and unmoving, as we were told our names would only invite other children to tease us. It became so quiet all we could hear was the clock ticking. I was relieved when the translator finally started speaking again, although we were unprepared for what she would say. “You have no choice. It’s the school board’s policy . . . it’ll help the children fit in.”

  We didn’t know any Canadian names. The three of us turned helplessly to the principal. Oblivious, he broke into a smile, revealing a set of brilliant white teeth. Their unevenness caught my eye. He made a grand gesture with his hands as he offered the names: Josh on one open palm for my brother, and Mary on the other for me. My mother agreed with a single nod.

  The principal then brought both palms together and applauded loudly. The translator told us, “Mr. Darcy says you have great names—they are his children’s names.” He turned to show us a framed photo of his family that sat on a shelf behind him. His children had blonde hair and thousands of little brown spots sprinkled all over their little pale faces.

  I thought about Mr. Darcy and his children as I banged “Für Elise” on the keyboard. “You seem a little distracted,” my piano teacher said as I stopped playing. “Are you nervous about the upcoming recital?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t distracted any more than usual. I wasn’t even thinking about the recital, which I hadn’t bothered telling my parents about. They would say no if I asked them to attend, as always. Unlike at Josh’s tae-kwon-do tournaments, there were no gold medals to be won at piano recitals.

  Later that day, I’d just taken over the register from my mother, who’d gone upstairs to make dinner. As I opened my English notebook, I started thinking about what Mr. Allen had told us earlier in class. “No story writes itself. Look for inspiration.” I had to create a sketch of a character I’d later use in a short story.

  A customer with spiked red hair walked in. He was wearing a black jacket, jeans, and sunglasses with the mirrored shades I so hated. I didn’t recognize him, so I watched carefully as he went to the back cooler, then up one aisle and down another.

  “Gimme a pack of du Maurier Kings,” he said as he placed a two-litre bottle of Coke, a bag of chips, and three cans of our cheapest cat food on the counter. He walked over to the magazines and took one from the top row. “I owe your husband from before,” he said, and pulled out his wallet.

  “You mean my dad,” I said. I placed the cigarettes on the magazine, covering the bare breasts of two wome
n. Upside down, I could still read the caption: “Shades of Singapore: Subservient and Sexy.” I reached for the pile of receipts clipped together by the register. “What’s your name again?”

  “Didn’t say yet,” he said. I looked up and saw my own reflection in his glasses. “It’s Leon.”

  I thumbed through the receipts. My dad was terrible at keeping track of customer tabs. He had his own system of scribbling names spelled phonetically in Korean.

  “Altogether, you owe twenty-seven dollars and two cents,” I told him.

  He took three ten-dollar bills from his wallet. “So. What’s your name?”

  “Mary.” I handed him three dollars.

  “Nope,” he said as he handed me back a dollar. “I don’t wanna owe nothin’ more.” Then he asked, “So, whatcha studying there, Mary?”

  I didn’t answer. He touched my hand as I dropped change into his outstretched palm, and my flesh crawled. As I bagged his purchases, I noticed the thick silver chain bracelet he wore. I’d already memorized his face: pale and stubbled skin, mouth bitten in, freckles everywhere, even on his neck. I imagined he had a tattoo or two somewhere.

  The back door opened and my dad entered.

  “Hey!” Leon called out to him, “just paid my money—to your daughter here.” He turned back to face me. He took his glasses off. “See you around, Mary,” he said with a slight nod.

  His lizard eyes had me recalling Mr. Allen’s words, “Look for inspiration.”

  * * *

  It was the last Saturday afternoon in October and I was at home waiting for my girlfriends to arrive. We were going to try out Erin’s new Ouija board. Our previous homeroom teacher had nicknamed the four of us the mini–United Nations. Rubina had emigrated from Pakistan and was a faithful Muslim. Linda was a devoted Italian Catholic and always wore a gold cross around her neck. I told everyone I was a Buddhist, although I rarely went to the temple. As immigrant children, we led parallel lives and were bound by parallel expectations of great achievement, which ultimately led to a lot of conspiring against our respective parents.

  Erin was the only one of us who’d escaped the burdens of the dream. She was the last of five children, and her family had been in Canada long enough for her Irish-born grandfather to have fought in the First World War. She was allowed to go out on weeknights, wear short skirts and makeup, and pierce her ears more than twice. We all loved her, and envied her freedom, but each of us kept what our parents said about her to ourselves.

  I’d first met Erin at Linda’s birthday sleepover two years earlier. Her father had died that May. According to Linda, it was Erin who’d found him hanging naked from his bedroom ceiling. Erin never shared any of that with me, and I never asked, although my mind refused to stop visualizing what she must have seen. To this day I’m haunted by images of a man with paper-white skin, a belt around his thin neck, dangling from a hook in the ceiling. How long had he suffered? Did he cry out for help only to realize it was too late? At least there would have been no blood. Just the thought of blood made me feel faint.

  At Linda’s sleepover, my friends and I pledged we would be best friends forever. We promised one another we would only surrender our virginities to our true loves, though later that night, Erin confessed she’d already been with her older cousin—something Linda responded to with exaggerated disgust until Rubina told us her parents were first cousins. I had nothing so exciting to reveal.

  * * *

  “Why don’t you have any Korean friends?” My mother would always begin the same way on the days my friends were coming to visit. Then her voice would turn accusatory, hostile. “You don’t like Korean people. You’re ashamed of our culture. But you’ll marry a Korean man if you know what’s good for you.”

  Although I was always silent, I hated when she talked this way because part of me knew she was right. I wished I was bold enough to say to her: You can’t force me to be proud of my culture when you’ve given me nothing to be proud of. Life, I imagined, would be easier if we were white, ate white food, and took vacations at places like Myrtle Beach or Cape Cod. I also secretly desired a white last name, a name I didn’t need to spell out for people. It was remarkable how many people misspelled Hwang. It annoyed me that many people believed I was Chinese.

  “I totally understand,” Rubina said when I told her. “It drives me crazy when people think I’m Indian.”

  I was relieved to discover that Rubina and Linda were hearing the same accusations and threats from their mothers about cultural expectations. The three of us swore we’d never allow our parents to decide how we’d live our lives and, above all, whom we would marry. It was Erin, the only one whose mother didn’t tell her what to do, who suggested we silently hum Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” whenever we had to endure our mothers’ rants. She wrote out the lyrics for us, and it became our secret song.

  * * *

  My parents, as usual, were downstairs in the store that Saturday. Josh was away at a tae-kwon-do tournament in Hamilton. My friends and I sat around the Ouija board on the carpeted floor in his room. According to the board, Rubina would be the first of us to marry. She beamed, proud in the revelation. Although dressed in jeans and a sweater, she was by far the most traditional, donning a scarf to hide her lovely black hair from the world. Because her parents were as strict as mine and had similar expectations, I felt she understood me in ways the others couldn’t. It made me appreciate her friendship that much more.

  We asked the board who would marry second, and the wedge began to move under our fingers. Linda, who was clearly alarmed at Rubina’s suggestion that we use Erin’s father’s spirit to answer our questions, bit deep into her lip and drew blood. I cringed. She whispered something to herself and kissed the cross she wore, leaving faint traces of red on it. Linda could be melodramatic but always went along with us in the end. Her parents wanted her to become a nurse and she had to work the hardest of us to maintain her grades. Though she never admitted it, we knew it embarrassed her that her father, who worked as a custodian at our school, could be seen outside smoking in his grey uniform with the teachers during his lunch break.

  According to the Ouija board, Erin would marry next, followed by me. We didn’t bother spelling out Linda’s name as she was the only one left.

  We were waiting for the pizza to arrive. Hungry and impatient, I went over to the window to see if the delivery guy was anywhere nearby. Instead, I saw Leon, still wearing his mirrored sunglasses, standing across the one-way street, talking with Suzie X and another girl.

  “What’re you looking at?” Erin came over and pulled the curtains back.

  Leon, who was lighting a cigarette, looked up and saw the two of us. I hid, feeling I’d been caught doing something wrong.

  “Get away from there!” I snapped.

  “Yeah, he’s kinda creepy,” Erin said as she continued to stare out the window.

  Then everyone was at the window, curious to get a peek. I closed the curtains, but not before catching another glimpse of Leon, still looking up at us.

  “Who wears shades like that anymore?” Linda asked. “It’s almost dark anyway.”

  “The guy’s obviously a pimp,” Erin said, as if she knew everything, adding for dramatic effect, “He’s probably armed and dangerous too, ready to beat the hell out of any girl who gets out of line.”

  The doorbell rang, and we all stared at each other. I panicked at the thought of creepy Leon. The bell rang again, followed by a booming knocking on the wooden door downstairs.

  “We should call the police,” Linda whispered.

  It was Erin, peeking out the window again, who finally said, “It’s the pizza guy.”

  I ran down to find an annoyed delivery man.

  “Can I have a slice?” Leon called out from across the street. Suzie X and the other girl giggled. He didn’t wait for my response, just flicked his cigarette butt into the sewer and turned back to talk to the girls.