A Step from Heaven (8 page)

Sneakers! I cry. Sneakers are nothing with twenty-three million dollars. You could buy a new car or even a house with all that money! I think about the houses on the hill, the ones with lollipop-green grass and not one but
two
front doors with gold handles.

Yes, Uhmma says, but how comfortable would you be if your feet hurt?

I hate when Uhmma makes too much sense. I try to get her to think big. What kind of car would you get, Uhmma?

She thinks about it for a while, peering carefully at the cars rushing by. An Oldsmobile, she says.

An Oldsmobile? You mean those big grandfather cars that take up two lanes?

Yes.

Those cars are too big, Uhmma. What about a Mercedes or a Porsche? I ask, imagining Uhmma and me in a fast, sleek Porsche.

Uhmma shakes her head and then checks her blind spot before changing lanes.

An Oldsmobile, Uhmma explains, is safe and roomy. It is
big enough to hold a whole family. You know my friend Kay, at the restaurant, she says that she saw an accident between an Oldsmobile and a Toyota. The Toyota was bent and completely broken, but the Oldsmobile had only a scratch on its bumper. Uhmma's eyes grow wide. She takes one hand off the steering wheel and points to a black Oldsmobile speeding in the carpool lane. Uhmma turns to me. That is the kind of car I would like to drive someday, she says.

I think about the Oldsmobile, strong enough to bulldoze regular cars, probably even station wagons. Certainly a station wagon whose right back door flies open when you take left turns too quick, gets honked at every time it inches up a hill, and leaks black oil all over the street. A beat-up station wagon is no match for an Oldsmobile.

While Uhmma drives, I sit dreaming of closets filled with brand-new clothes still smelling of department store perfume, cupboards filled with Entenmann's cakes, and boxes and boxes of real cereal, not the fake kind with yellow writing. I dream of an Oldsmobile and a Porsche sitting in a spacious garage lined with shelves and neatly hung tools.

When we get home, I run to my room to look at my social studies book with its pictures of the world. My fingers trace the maps while I read the names of faraway places: New Zealand, Greece, France, Italy, Japan, Korea. I lie on my bed imagining an ocean breeze on my face as I travel the world on a ship. I would swim in those jellybean-shaped pools and sip lemonade under the hot sun.

“Young Ju, dinner time,” Joon yells, poking his head into my room. He burps and then slams the door. My ship is back home.

All through dinner I twist in my seat, checking the clock to make sure I do not miss the hour of magic numbers. I know the channel and time by heart from watching the show every Saturday after the
Six O'Clock News Hour
with Michael Markson.

Apa growls under his breath, Young Ju, stop turning around. Eat your dinner politely.

I sit up straight and try to finish my dinner quickly. I clank my spoon against the bowl, scraping the sticky rice from the sides.

Young Ju! Apa says, pointing his chopsticks at me. How many times do I have to remind you that it is not polite to make noises when cleaning your bowl? Do it over again.

My shoulders slump. I try as carefully and as quietly as possible to scrape the rice kernels that cling like drowning victims to the sides of the bowl. We can never leave the table until every last one is eaten. When I finish, I glance at Uhmma. She checks my bowl and nods.

Back in my room, I stare at the old alarm clock that ticks too loud at night. Fifteen more minutes. I cross my fingers, wishing with all my might that Apa will soon get up from the table and go away so that I can turn on the TV in the living room. Soon I hear the front door slam. Apa has gone outside for his after-dinner cigarette. I bolt from my room.

“Hurry up, Joon! We are about to win twenty-three million dollars,” I shout on my way to the living room.

“What are you talking about?” Joon asks, standing in the hallway.

“Look, look!” I take the orange and white ticket with the six magic numbers out of Uhmma's purse. I wave it at him as though I am cheering on my team at the Olympics.

“We're not going to win,” Joon scoffs, but he plops down on the sofa anyway.

“Yes, we are! I feel it already,” I say. And I do. I can feel the scream of happiness waiting in my belly.

Uhmma, I call as I flick on the TV, do you not want to watch?

You tell me when it comes on and I will come over, she yells over the noise of running water and clanking dishes.

I turn the knob to Channel 7 and there is Michael Markson in a tie with blue stripes. He jokes for a little bit and then signs off. After a few commercials, an announcer wearing a black and white suit with a bow tie at his neck comes on to say the winning numbers.

Uhmma, I call out, it is starting!

Uhmma rushes to the living room still rubbing her hands dry on a towel. She sits on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, her eyes blinking at the screen.

“Here are the winning numbers for this week's twenty-three-million-dollar jackpot,” the announcer says swiftly. The numbered balls jump around in the cage, then one falls forward.

“Ten,” his voice booms. I squeal my happy surprise and point to the lucky number on my sheet.

“Nineteen, thirty-one, twenty-seven, fourteen, thirty-nine. This week's lucky numbers are ten, fourteen, nineteen, twenty-seven, thirty-one, thirty-nine. Thank you for playing Superlotto.”

The winning numbers hover in the middle of the screen, suspended against a brilliant blue background. I check the numbers against the sheet in my hand. I cannot point to any number except 10. When I look up to check again, the numbers fade into dancing cats singing about kitty litter. Is it over? So soon? The room presses
in hot and heavy the way it does when you wake up from a nap in the afternoon sun.

We got one number, Young Ju, Uhmma says in a soft voice. She pats my shoulder before standing up to go finish washing the dishes.

“One number doesn't get you any money. That was a stupid waste,” Joon snaps and changes the channel.

I tilt my head down in shame, look at the worn, shaggy orange rug that was too cheap to pass up at a garage sale. I bite my nails, trying to remember all the things I wanted to buy, but the dreams are lost in the roar of gunfight on TV and clanking dishes in the kitchen.

A dollar for afternoon dreams is expensive and cheap. I sigh, draw up my knees, and pull the collar of my shirt into my mouth. But somebody has to win. Somebody gets the jackpot. Why not us? The soft cotton becomes wet with spit as I chew and think of how to pay for next week's Superlotto ticket. My foot falls asleep and I shift positions. A tiny gleam catches the corner of my eyes. I glance over.

There. Shining under the lamp, Uhmma's glass flower vase of pennies. I jerk my head away. No, never. But. My eyes skim across the ceiling, down the far wall, over to the bookshelf. There.

One hundred pennies will pull a pocket low and clank loudly on the store counter. I remember today's checkout girl giving Uhmma's chapped red hands a long look as Uhmma counted out one quarter, two dimes, five nickels, and thirty pennies. I stare at the muddy, ugly pennies and wonder. Are they worth millions?

Apa leads. I stay a step behind. Apa peers down at the scrap of paper in his hand and then looks up at the number on the gray stucco building. I silently read the words on the plaque, Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services.

This is it, Apa says, turning to me. I nod and follow him to the glass doors. We push past and find ourselves immediately standing in line. Metal detectors. Like at the airport. I lean to one side and watch a blue-uniformed man holding some keys while a woman passes through the empty door frame. We wait for our turn.

Once we are past the metal detectors, Apa stares at a door and a sign. He stands there trying to read the words. Trying to make some sense of where we are to go for the renewal of my green card. Apa jerks his thumb at the door and asks, What does this say?

“Authorized Personnel Only,” I read.

Apa waits for me to translate.

We cannot go in there. It is only for the people who work here, I say.

Apa notices a crowd of people heading for a large waiting room to our right. He starts to follow.

Apa, I call out as I read a sign posted near some double wooden doors.

He turns around, confused.

This way, I say and point in the opposite direction.

Apa rubs the back of his neck and starts back toward me.

I lead. Apa stays a step behind.

Another line. Just to get into the room. We stand and wait our turn. At the front of the line a stooped grandma with curly white hair and eyes the color of summer grass hands us a small baby-blue ticket with a number.

“This is for the information window and they will direct you to where you need to go next,” the grandma repeats like a machine. Apa opens his mouth to ask a question, but the grandma has already started to hand a ticket to the person behind us. Apa and I step out of the way into the large, windowless waiting area. Rows and rows of black chairs are filled with people sitting, slouching, reading, dozing. Some people stand and line the walls like flies on a humid summer afternoon.

At the front of the room there are five windows, but only three are open. Each window is distinguished from the others by a sign that hangs below its counter with the word “Window” and a number between one and five. Above each window there is a flashing red number announcing which person may step up next. Only one window carries the sign “Information.” We find two empty seats toward the front as though that will get us to the window faster.

I lean close to Apa and study the ticket in his hand. Ninety-three.

“Fifty-five,” the information lady calls out.

One by one, as the information lady calls out a number, a person or whole families stand to go ask their question. Some people take only ten seconds. Others talk and talk, making the information lady tilt her head to one side and blow her wispy bangs off her forehead. Every once in a while she picks a lint ball off her dark blue wool sweater. All the people she speaks with get another ticket to wait for one of the other windows.

“Sixty-two.”

A Mexican couple dressed in matching crisp blue jeans and sweatshirts with a red Reebok logo across the chest step up to the window. The wife holds her purse with both hands and does most of the talking. The information lady is bilingual and answers back quickly in Spanish, pointing to the other window. She hands them a ticket. The husband takes the number, but the wife is still not satisfied with the answer. The two women go back and forth for a little while longer until the information lady refuses to say anything more, just keeps pointing to the other window.

The wife gives up and joins her husband, who has inched to the left to lean up against the wall. They both study the number in his hand. They look up at the blinking red number over the window they are supposed to go to next. The husband shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He walks back to their seats. The wife continues to stand by the wall, her eyes locked on the red number, her lips moving silently as though praying for a quick turnover.

Apa shifts in his seat and begins to mutter, This is going to take all day. Why do they not open up all the windows? He stands up and wanders around the waiting room, shuffling through newspapers left in empty seats. I lean my elbow on the armrest and prop my chin up with my hand. This
will
take all day. Even school is better than this.

By the time the information lady calls out our number, “Ninety-three,” Apa has somehow managed to find an old
Korea Times
newspaper and is so busy reading that he does not hear her.

Apa, I think that is our number, I say, nudging his arm.

What? Apa looks up from his paper toward the information window.

Where is the number, Apa? I ask.

Here, Apa says, checking his pockets.

The information lady calls out our number again. “Ninety-three.”

I know that is our number, I say and stand up. Let us go.

Apa follows after me, still searching for the lost number.

“Yes?” the information lady says.

I start to step forward, but Apa rushes in past me. He found the number. He lays the wrinkled baby-blue scrap of paper on the counter and asks our question. “We here for green card. For her.” Apa points at me.

“You'll have to go to window three. Here is your number.”

Apa reaches out and takes the new number.

“No, wait,” I interrupt. “I have a green card. I'm supposed to renew it or something.” I turn to Apa and say, Apa, can you get my green card out?

What are you doing? Apa asks me, his eyes slightly narrowed. This ahjimma has already given us a number for the next window.

Apa, please give me the green card, I say again, a begging note cracking my voice. The information lady taps her pen against the counter. Apa pulls out his wallet and finds my card. He hands it over to the information lady instead of placing it in my outstretched hand.

The information lady looks at the numbers and words written like ant trails on the back of my card. She looks up at me. “Are you turning thirteen?” she asks.

“Yes, that's it. I'm supposed to renew my card, right?”

“Yes. Give me that number back and I'll give you a new one for window four.”

I turn to Apa and say, Apa, you have to give the number back.

Apa growls low, What is going on? What are you telling this ahjimma? You better not get the wrong information. I cannot take off another day from work to come back here.

Apa, you have to give back the number, I say again. She will give us another number. When Apa squints his eyes at me, I add, For the right window.

Apa reluctantly places the baby-blue scrap of paper back on the counter. The information lady gives us another number, 36, and points to window four. We find ourselves another set of seats. Two elderly Chinese men have taken our old ones.