LUCKY

The screams coming from the second floor window are blood-curdling, accusatory, and unmistakably my mother’s. From where Eric and I are sitting on the asphalt, we hear every word as we brace ourselves for the counter-point of angry, masculine barks. Now here comes Daddy, agitated, making his way out the front door and toward us. He’s got his keys in hand and is jerking his head toward the Toyota, so we know we are in this for the long haul. The last argument had ended with a call to the police when Daddy took us out of the house and did not return until close to midnight. On these impromptu outings, we endured hours in the car as our father jabbered on about going into business. He never mentioned the fights, but we knew that the culprit was always money. More specifically, the lack of money caused by our father’s reckless spending. But it was his dreams of big business that drove our mother insane.

“In order to be successful, you need three things,” She’d say. “You need intelligence, you need hard work, and last of all, you need luck. Daddy has none of these.”

And it was true enough. At least, the first two made sense; but the third thing, luck, was a slippery idea--and seemed so brutally unfair that though we were young, it wasn’t hard to see why our father dreamed. Why he was now telling us his intention to open a shop downtown while lambasting other business owners, unable to grasp that the difference between their success and his failure might be sheer, spiteful luck.

“If Huang can do it, so can I.” He scowled into the the rear-view mirror. Mr. Huang was a longtime friend and the owner of West Lake grocery. As the only Asian grocery store in town, it did good business. We liked Mr. Huang; he always gave us candy, which didn’t quite make up for the interminable talk that passed between the adults at the register.

The freeway yawns before us as we ride with the sun on the backs of closed lids, our father’s words weaving in and out of our own drowsy dreams. He always drives and drives before choosing a destination. I wish he would take us home, but I know it will be a while yet before his rant is exhausted. I look over at my brother; he is dozing with his head dropped over towards the window. The car banks hard. My arm smacks the door as we exit the freeway and take the first left toward West Lake. I groan.

“Wake up.” The command is for my brother, whose eyes start to blink open. Shadows from the branches overhead skate over his round cheeks. I unbuckle and get out. My feet find the gravel ground. We duck through the sliding doors and an artificial breeze washes over us. It is 100 degrees outside, but the inside of the store is delectably chilly. I blink red sunlight from my eyes so I can see all around, and feel a shove from behind as two men with armfuls of melon push past. A collective murmur of Cantonese can be heard but not understood by us, who have spoken only English our whole lives. Yet, somehow it is comforting to hear these foreign words, to behold aisles of merchandise packed as tightly together as the canned sardines our grandfather eats with rice. Family trips to West Lake have probably numbered in the hundreds; but it feels different this time, maybe because we are our father’s captives.

We squeak over floor tiles scuffed with dirt and residue from leaking boxes. The musk of Asian spices is overpowering, and seems to cover everything in the store, down to the mass-produced New Year trinkets. Green-aproned employees stuff shelves with packs of dried noodles. My father leads us to the candy aisle, where he will leave us to browse while he does his shopping.

“Stay here, huh?” And he walks toward the vegetable bins at the far end of the store. We’re left to stare at colorful, chalky-looking sweets that are more pleasing to the eye than to the palette. We paw at bags of marble candy and chocolate wafers with cartoons on the package, but nothing holds our attention today.

Across from us, a worker dumps live crabs into a plastic bin. Eric grins up at me. We know better than to wander off, but crabs are a bright spot of these visits to West Lake. So we bolt away from the candy and past the watermelons and the canned pickles to where the crabs are roiling furiously in their plastic prison. My brother grabs up the tongs meant for snatching the creatures and thrusts it into the seething mass. As he does so, I recall hearing that crabs who try to scramble up the side of a bucket are soon dragged down by the others. But we don’t get to witness this phenomenon because my brother, himself, is the one picking the strays up and dumping them back onto the pile. Strangers look down at us in disgust or amusement. Twenty feet away, our father is examining eggplants, unaware that his parenting abilities are being called into question.

“Daddy wants us to stay at the candy,” I say.

“Daddy is a crab,” Eric mumbles, and snaps the tongs in imitation of a feisty crab.

A bluish specimen clamors up the side before a smaller crab swipes a claw across its back. It falls back onto the pile. My brother laughs. “That’s Daddy, and that’s Mommy” He prods Daddy with the tongs. Snipping the air, the crab is overcome by the others and disappears into the sea of claws. An unnamed worry stirs in my stomach, perhaps about what awaits us at home. I hope it's not the police.

“Let’s go.”

I’m startled out of my daze. Daddy looms over us with a sack of rice in one arm and a basket in the other. We leave the crabs. Eric and I skip ahead past gold Buddhas, dragon ash trays, and red paper lanterns, the smell of which is like the inside of a temple we once visited in Taipei. A pink-clad child blurs past, and something falls from the shelf into my hands. I look down to see a thick stack of paper wrapped loosely in cellophane. Two sheets slip out and flutter down to the floor. I pick them up. They are faded red, and have lots of zeros.

“Wah, you’re rich, Nolie.” Daddy smiles for the first time today. He squats down next to me. “That’s 20,000 dollars, you know. Chinese money.”

“Is it real?” Eric asks, incredulous.

“Not here.” He points upward. We follow his gaze toward the ceiling. “In Heaven. When somebody dies, you burn this paper so that they will have money.”

My brother squints, uncomprehending. “So, you get rich only when you’re dead?”

Daddy laughs. “It has to last a long time.”

Forever, I think, staring at the stack of bills. Each has a bearded man draped in rich, abundant robes. He might be God, or some long ago king. I thumb the crisp paper edges through the wrapping. My father takes the pack from my hands and puts it back on the shelf.

“I’m going to be rich someday,” Eric proclaims. He grabs for the bills, but I stuff them in my denim overalls and stick out my tongue. We head to the checkout, where Mr. Huang is instructing a young cashier on the register. Daddy heaves the basket and sack of rice onto the conveyor belt. Mr. Huang looks up. They bark some foreign words at each other. When Daddy and Mr. Huang talk, they always sound angry. I ride the tension in their voices until they burst unexpectedly into laughter. Chinese is a weird language. Mr. Huang extends a hand to me, then to my brother.

“How are you?” He smiles, flashing gold teeth. I wonder how much those teeth cost, and if Mr. Huang is rich.

“Okay,” I say, and hope will not talk for long. Mr. Huang's hand disappears behind the counter and emerges with a fistful of White Rabbit Candy. Excited, we cup our hands to receive them.

Plop, plop, plop. The creamy taffy is deliciously heavy in my palms. I untwist the wrapper on one piece and put the end to my tongue. It is coated in a thin layer of edible film. I chew the candy and gaze fondly at the little white rabbit on the wrapper. Eric takes a few small nibbles of his and re-wraps it, stowing it in his jacket. Mr. Huang laughs. The scanner beeps away.

“What?” Asks Eric, who hates to be laughed at.

“You are, how you say in English.. the thrifty one,” he says to my brother. “I know because you have the money mouth, like me.” And he puckers his own mouth.

“What about me?” I ask, with chewed candy threatening to erupt from mine.

“You have a lucky nose,” and he taps a finger to his wrinkled nose.

Daddy adds, “I wish I had your nose.” It is said that a pudgy nose is a sign of wealth. The beeps have stopped, and the cashier beckons to Mr. Huang, who hits some keys on the register. He sighs, extracting a little black book from his pocket.

"Broken register."

Eric eyes a packet of shrimp sticks from a display. It's the kind he likes to bring for snack at school. Daddy takes it and tosses it onto the belt, as the cashier reads off the label of each item by turn. Mr. Huang scribbles in his book. He flips it toward Daddy and points at something.

“What are you writing?” I ask.

He faces the book to me to reveal a long, vertical row of decimals.

“You did that with no calculator?”

“The calculator’s here.” He points to his head. “Do they teach you in school?”

I nod, but don't mention my D in math. Daddy pulls out the whole wad of bills from his wallet. Mr. Huang counts them off with practiced speed. In imitation, I pull out the two red bills from my overalls. He counts the last four singles. It's not enough. Daddy mines his back pockets, but comes up with only a few pennies. He takes the shrimp sticks out of the bag.

“Nolie, put this back.” He says to me.

“Not that!” Eric protests.

Still clutching the bills, I reach out, but Mr. Huang stops me. He takes the bills from my outstretched hand.

“Twenty thousand! Ok.” He winks, and tucks the bills away. Then he hands the shrimp sticks to my brother.

“Thank you,” Eric chirps gratefully.

“Xièxiè,” Says Daddy, but his face is the same color as the bills.

“You are lucky,” Mr. Huang says, and he looks at us. “You are good kids. Take care of Daddy.” We nod. The cashier hoists the bags over to us, and we wave goodbye.

Outside, red sunlight spills over the pavement. Daddy is quiet, his face half-hidden by a streetlamp shadow. Timidly, I offer him my last piece of White Rabbit candy.

“Rabbits are lucky,” I say. My logic is lost on him, but he accepts it with a strange little smile. We pile into the oven-hot Toyota and start for home. As we ride in silence, I picture Mommy at home without us. Sometimes when we're gone, she sings. I stood in the doorway once to listen. Her voice is low and sad. I think they are old, old songs. Other times, Ama visits and Mommy complains to her about life, and about other things. About Daddy. I imagine her complaining to a police officer the same way she complains to Ama. I don’t know what we will find when we get home, but I hope there is singing.