Becoming Who We Are Ch. 06

"Well done," he said heartily. He rose. "Want anything to drink?"

"No, thank you," Mark said. "To tell you the truth, I'm still pretty keyed up."

"Natural reaction after a fight," the colonel said. "I'd offer you the use of our treadmill, but frankly, you're not dressed for it."

"Thanks anyway, sir," Mark said. "Besides, I told my parents I'd be home by twelve-thirty, so I have to leave soon anyway."

"Don't call me sir," the colonel said. "Mr. Taylor, or Colonel Taylor if you can't bring yourself to say mister, will do just fine."

"Joe, I could use a glass of water," his wife said mildly.

"Oh, uh, yeah," he said. They both rose.

"Well, we'll let you kids say good night," Mrs. Taylor said. "I think Melina can see you to the door, Mark."

The colonel extended his hand to Mark, who took it. Nice grip, he thought. The boy really would make a fine cadet.

Once her parents had passed out of hearing range, Melina heaved a sigh.

"I'm glad they're gone. Do you want to sit down?"

"Sure."

They sat on the couch, suddenly aware of certain possibilities. Neither said a word at first. Then, as the seconds ticked by, Mark shuffled his feet, and Melina turned to him.

"This is pretty awkward, isn't it? I mean, I keep thinking about that kiss on the dance floor."

"You do? So do I. That was an excellent kiss."

"Yes. I don't anyone's ever kissed me like that before."

"Like what?"

"Like that -- like he, I don't know. Like you did."

"Like this?"

He leaned over, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her gently.

"No," she said thoughtfully. "I think we need to stand up to do it right."

They stood.

"Now let's try it again. Put your arms around me like you did while we were dancing."

He complied. Smiles quirked both their mouths.

"Now try it again."

And he did. And it was good.

Very good.

**

Jeff Rohrbach woke with a throbbing head and the sort of vile taste in his mouth that comes only to those who drink too much, throw up and then neglect to brush their teeth before falling into bed. He groaned. What the hell had happened to him?

He rolled onto his back and immediately regretted moving. He hadn't felt this bad in a long time. Lying still for several minutes, his eyes closed, he willed himself either to go back to sleep or to feel better. Neither wish came true.

But while good health and rest eluded him, memories did not. Recalling the game yesterday brought a wan smile to his lips. The Warriors had won when he intercepted a pass with just seconds remaining and ran it back the length of the field for a touchdown. After that, he had gone to an afternoon keg party to celebrate, where he had gotten drunk and picked a fight with his latest girlfriend. She had made him so mad he had given her a quick punch. A few other kids saw it, but he had ignored them and nobody had said anything. Later, as he drove her home, he had apologized for blackening her eye and promised he would never hit her again. He had sweet-talked her into bed at her place before getting ready for the dance. Jeff had brought his suit to her house so he wouldn't have to return to his. His old man had turned even nastier lately and Jeff hated being around him.

He frowned. In the parking lot, he and his buddies had filled some hip flasks with booze, drunk the leftovers and swaggered into the gym as if they owned the joint. After that, his memories became more fragmented. He recalled laughing, steamy heat, and people staring at him. His frown deepened. He had a feeling something significant had happened later, but he could not recall what it could be. A vision of dark hair and eyes flashed across his brain. That was it! Now, who was that and why was he important?

He opened his eyes and studied the ceiling. Of course. That Oriental kid. The one he picked on. But wait a second. It couldn't be that kid. Jeff knew he terrified the skinny little knob, so this had to be someone else. Someone else? He scowled, then winced at the return of the throbbing in his head. But who?

Whoever it was looked like his favorite victim. Of course, Jeff thought sarcastically, they all look alike. But even so, this new kid looked enough like the other one that they had to have some sort of connection. A brother? Jeff sighed. His brain was not up to major mental calisthenics right now. He'd think about it some more later. He did remember shouting at the kid and falling into a tree and a sharp pang of hatred. And hadn't a girl watched it all? He wished he hadn't drunk quite so much. He really ought to cut back on the booze. It slowed him down.

**

As Jeff tried to make his booze-beclouded brain work properly, Evan and Lakeesha sat in church, surreptitiously holding hands underneath her coat. Their parents knew it, of course; parents always know, even if they don't let on. But the Jacksons and Thompsons had known one another since childhood, and they approved of the relationship between their children. Not only did both kids have ambitions and dreams for their futures, but they had proven themselves trustworthy. Mrs. Thompson and Lakeesha had had several frank discussions about the reasons to save sex for marriage, and the woman felt confident her baby would do the right thing. Evan, too, held strong views on the subject. Everyone expected the two would get married, probably after college, and thus cast a benevolent eye on the kissing and hand-holding they observed.

Lakeesha smiled with pleasure as the chorus belted out a hymn that practically blasted the roof off the building. She loved this church, especially now that the new minister brought so much energy to it. In elementary school her family and the Jacksons had been the only people in her neighborhood who went here. Now it seemed as if everyone did. They had three choirs instead of one; classes every weekday evening about all kinds of subjects from finances to building good relationships; and a basketball team that knocked the stuffing out of every other church team in the city, even the Catholics, who had dominated church league hoops since the seventies. Lakeesha looked around her at the richly hued human tapestry: the old ladies in their fancy hats, the serious little girls with their braids and ponytails, the boys in their short-sleeved shirts and clip-on ties, the young men in their crisply ironed dress shirts and slacks, and the older men in their suits. She sighed happily.

Evan looked at her out of the corner of his eye and grinned. He had never seen her look so stunning as she had at the dance, and to him, she still retained the beauty and mystique of the previous night. True, her church dress covered a good deal more real estate than that shimmery white number, and certainly she wore much less make-up right now. But the essential girl remained the same, and he loved her. He gave her hand a little squeeze and she returned the pressure.

It was a shame about Mark and Jeff -- Evan had known the Rohrbach boy since third grade. Even then, the kid had had a mean streak. But he generally did not direct his nastiness toward black kids, and before last night, Evan had never faced off against him. Their worlds hardly intersected. Evan led a life of Honors classes, fall and spring track, church, martial arts, and now, Lakeesha. Jeff hung with a different crowd, took mainstream classes, treated his girlfriends badly, and lived for football and baseball. Evan hoped Jeff had been too drunk to remember the events at the maple tree.

The congregation rose for a hymn and Evan put these thoughts aside as he leaned over Lakeesha's shoulder to see the hymnal. His baritone voice and her alto joined in joyful noise.

**

The Taylors sat at their kitchen table savoring a late breakfast of fresh waffles and syrup, ham slices, coffee and milk. The waffle iron had only recently joined the stable of kitchen appliances and Colonel Taylor particularly enjoyed using this new toy. They had spent most of the morning dissecting the previous day's events -- the game, especially the interception that had turned into the winning play, the dance, and of course, the fight. The colonel praised Mark lavishly. Mrs. Taylor, an amused smile on her lips, echoed his endorsement.

"Anyone for a third waffle?" the colonel asked.

"No, thanks, Dad. I'm totally stuffed."

"None for me either," Mrs. Taylor said, stretching. "I have to be at work in an hour and if I eat anything else, I'll want to take a nap instead. Thanks for the offer, though. They're very good."

"I guess I'll have one," he said. "It looks like there's enough batter for only one more, anyway."

He had just closed the lid of the waffle iron when the phone rang. Despite Melina's dash to the receiver, he reached it first.

"Hello?" he barked.

"Hi, Dad," a female voice said.

"Julie?"

"None other. How's it going?"

"Fine, honey. Your mom has to leave for work soon, so let me put her on now." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Mel, go get your mom. It's Julie."

"Sure."

Upstairs, her mother picked up the other extension and Melina walked slowly to her room. Julie couldn't afford to talk for long, and her parents would, no doubt, tell Julie all about her adventures, assuming Julie's escapades didn't steal the show. In her room, her eyes lit on the pile of textbooks she needed to study that day. She let out a gusty sigh. She had never felt less like doing homework. She kept replaying last evening in her mind, especially the slow dances and kisses. She could not help but smile. What a night! Thank heavens she and Pete had broken up. She wondered what Mark was doing. Perhaps he was thinking about her, too. Her thoughts trailed into an agreeable haze and she sat for several minutes thinking of him. A knock on her door startled her.

"Hon? Julie wants to talk to you..."

"Tell her I'll be right there."

**

Mark had woken not long after dawn. He hadn't intended to do so, but once his eyes opened, he felt a tide of joy surge over him. He lay for a couple of minutes, relishing the memories of the previous night, then lightly leaped out of bed. He felt too good to try to go back to sleep. Instead, he donned his sweats and hurried down to the basement.

He found his father already there, well into his morning tai chi exercises. He gave Mark a scant nod as the boy took a position beside him and began his own routine. They worked out in mutual silence for nearly half an hour before the man gracefully wound down his program and reached for a towel to wipe his face. He sat on the floor and watched his son's body flow from one posture to the next, like waves merging into one another, then changing into entirely new forms as they reached shore. Mark had excellent control and muscular tone, he thought, taking pride in his son's abilities.

He felt a twinge of regret as he realized how little time he spent with his son these days. Mark would soon become a man, he knew. He hoped the boy would find more happiness than he had. Ai-ya! What an American thought! But he was an American, and perhaps such thoughts were appropriate now. He shook his head ruefully. Wei never would have entertained such a notion during his own adolescence. Back then, he had only hoped his family could survive until the madness of Mao's Cultural Revolution passed -- if it ever passed. His father was accused of having rightist tendencies and sent to a work camp when Wei was barely seven. Afterward, the entire family lived in fear of further fragmentation in the name of the people. How different Mark's life was.

The boy finished the final posture, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes opened and he joined his father on the floor.

"You do tai chi well," his father remarked. "You remind me of water and waves."

Mark grinned.

"That's my goal: to be like water, just like Bruce Lee said."

His father did not answer, and an awkward silence hung over the room.

"Thanks for lending me your tux," Mark said. "I hung it up last night after I got home, so it shouldn't have any wrinkles."

"Good," his father said. He paused. "How was the dance?"

"Excellent!" Mark said. "We had the best time."

"Tell me about this girl you took."

"Oh, Melina's great. She's very pretty, and smart, and nice."

"Your mother tells me she's white?"

"Uh huh."

"Hmm. You plan to see her again?"

"I hope so."

"Hmm,' his father said again. Mark had a feeling he knew what would come next, and indeed, his father did not deviate from what his son imagined he would say. "You're growing up, xiao huangdi. In China, I would expect you to do as I say until you leave my home, but we are not in China. We are both Americans, and American men make their own decisions. I won't tell you not to see her again. But I will tell you that she has the potential to make you eat bitterness, to break your heart, as they say here. White people prefer their own kind. She might enjoy the novelty of having a Chinese boyfriend, but she'll grow tired of it in time."

Mark bit back the response that came to his lips and thought of another.

"Did that ever happen to you?"

His father shot him an astonished look.

"To me? Oh, no. I had not been here long when I met your mother, and after I met her, I never looked at another woman of any race."

"Then how do you know?"

"Your mother told me," he said simply. "A white boy led her on -- is that the right expression? -- and then dropped her for a white girl. It hurt her very much."

"Yes, she told me something about that. But can she, or I, base our opinions of an entire race on one boy's behavior twenty-five years ago?"

"It is not just her opinion. Many of my friends have had similar experiences. But I suppose you will have to learn for yourself." The older man sighed. "I wish you well."

They heard footsteps above them and both arose hastily and made for the stairs. From the sound of the steps, they could belong only to Mrs. Tang. Neither relished the thought of spending half an hour in the early morning with her. Attending church with her was bad enough.

After a quick shower, Mark's body hummed with energy. He trotted down to the kitchen, where the rich smell of brewed coffee filled the air. Although he hated the taste of coffee, he loved the scent and inhaled it deeply. He opened the refrigerator and reached for the bowl of fruit salad and the milk. Grabbing his favorite cereal from the pantry, he made himself a light breakfast. He had just finished when Mary meandered into the room.

"Morning," she mumbled. Then her gaze sharpened, an expression he had often seen on their mother's face. "So how was the dance, Romeo?"

"Not bad, twerp," he said.

"Did you kiss her?"

"Kiss who?"

Mary gazed at him in exasperation.

"Your date, you moron. I mean, unless you were busy kissing someone else."

"Maybe," he said archly. "Maybe not. I don't kiss and tell."

"So you did, then." She made it a statement, not a question.

He did not dignify her remark with a response.

"Oh, lighten up," she said, assembling her breakfast. "I'm just kidding."

"We had a very nice time," Mark said. "Practically perfect in every way, except for a jerk who made some racist remarks and then tried to pick a fight with me."

"Why?"

"Beats me. I never saw him before. He apparently didn't like my face."

"What did he look like?"

"Big, blond, thick-necked jock. Probably a football player or something."

Mary frowned.

"One of the guys who jumped me looked like that. I wonder if it's the same guy."

"Could be. I mean, how many big, blond, thick-necked anti-Asian racists can there be in this town, anyway?"

They looked at each other, concerned.

With a jingle of keys, Mr. Tang strode in, dropped the morning paper on the kitchen table, and turned toward the door.

"I'm opening today," he said, referring to the restaurant. "See you later."

Mark reached for the paper.

"I wonder if there's an article about the game yesterday," he said. "One thing about papers in a town this size, they do a good job with high school sports."

He flipped to the sports page and tugged it away from its comrades. A headline below the fold caught his eye: "Rose Blooms for Homecoming: Big Win for Warriors." He spread out the paper on the table. A small photograph below a large action shot caught his eye.

"Hey! That's the guy from last night!" he exclaimed, pointing at the mug shot.

"Let me see," Mary said, pulling the paper toward her. She stared at the smiling image on the page. "My God! That's one of the guys that jumped me."

**

In the distance, Melina heard the phone ring. She stretched and rolled her shoulders to relieve the stiffness that had settled into her upper back. Glancing at her clock radio, she realized two hours had passed since her last break. As if on cue, she heard her father's firm knock on her door.

"Melina?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Phone's for you. It's Mark."

She jumped out of her chair, checked her impulse to set a twenty-five meter hurdle record in order to reach the telephone, and walked calmly to the door.

"Thanks," she said, smiling up at her father.

"Any time," he said, equally serene. He chuckled to himself. She didn't fool her old man. He had heard the initial flurry of activity and seen the look in her eyes. He diagnosed a bad case of young love as he listened to her thump down the stairs.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hi!" Melina could hear the smile in Mark's voice. "How's it going?"

"Just great," she said, her spirits rising skyward. "How about you?"

"Terrific. I just wanted to call and see how you were doing today and maybe find out if you wanted to come over or take a walk around the college or something?"

"Uh, sure! Great. When? I mean, I have some homework I need to finish first, but I should be free in about half an hour or so."

"Sounds good. I'll come over and get you around three."

"Great! I'll be ready."

Melina hung up the receiver slowly. This seemed far too good to be true. The boy she liked actually felt the same way? And behaved like a gentleman? Astonishing!

"Where are you off to?" her father said.

She jumped.

"Oh, I didn't know you were behind me, Dad. Mark invited me to go wander around the college grounds with him. Is that okay with you?'

"Is your homework done?"

She made a face at him.

"Just about. I told him to give me half an hour, and I should be done by then."

"I can't find anything wrong with this plan, so go and have fun. The leaves are past peak, but they're still pretty nice. I'd like you back by dinnertime, though. Say, six o'clock. These days, it's practically dark by then anyway."

She nodded.

"Deal."

She hurried upstairs to finish reading her history chapter, completing it with five minutes to spare. Rushing to the bathroom, she did a quick groom, brushing her teeth, rinsing her face and slathering lotion on it against the dry autumn air, pulling her hair back into a tidy ponytail and applying light coats of mascara and lipstick. She assessed the results in the mirror, grinned at her reflection, and dashed back to her room to don her favorite faded jeans, magenta sweater, and weathered hiking boots. Pulling on a blue fleece jacket, she thudded down the stairs just in time to answer the door.

"Hi!"

He smiled up at her.

"Hiya, gorgeous. Ready to go?"

"Yep."

She turned and called over her shoulder, "Mark's here. We're leaving now."

Her father appeared at the top of the stairs and greeted their visitor.

"Have fun, you two. It's such a splendid day, I may go for a hike myself."

"Have a good time, then," Melina said, hoping neither man would suggest that her father join them. She loved her father, but she had her limits. "See you later."

She bolted through the door and shut it carefully behind her.