Kimchi & Calamari (5 page)

The wind picked up again suddenly, and I wished I'd worn my band jacket.

Yongsu told me he had a sister who was also in eighth grade. She hadn't moved yet because she was in a gifted music program. She'd already composed a piano piece that her school orchestra performed at a state competition.

“You're twins?” I asked.

He dealt the cards. “No, she skipped a year back in grade school.”

“I've got twin sisters,” I told Yongsu.

“You're a triplet?” he asked, confused.

I explained that my sisters were younger and not adopted.

“My sister's staying with my aunt and uncle in Flushing for a few more days until the music program is over,” he said.

“What's her name?”

“Ok-hee.”

I must have made a face.

“Ok-hee's a popular name in Korea,” he said. “Like Brittney or Jessica in America.”

“Or Kelly.” Popular with me, for sure.

We stopped playing cards. Yongsu took a handheld computer out of his pocket. It was a Japanese video game he'd bought off a street vendor in Flushing. It played like a space arcade, but involved morphed grasshoppers searching for food and fighting four-legged bad guys.

“You ever heard the name Duk-kee before?” I asked.

“One of my best friends in Taegu was Duk-kee.”

He pronounced “Duk-kee” differently. More like “Took-ee.” Not “Ducky,” the way I say it.

“Do you know where you were born in Korea, Joseph?”

“Pusan,” I said. “You been there?”

He nodded. “It's a two-hour drive from Taegu, where we lived. In the summer my parents took us to the fish market and beach in Pusan. My cousin goes to university there.”

I wished I had a Korean cousin. Then I could write about him or her for my essay. I'd settle for just about any Korean relative at this point.

“Yongsu, can you think of any famous Koreans? Like how we have George Washington and Tiger Woods?”

His eyes sparkled like his mom's. “You ask funny questions.”

“I'm not kidding,” I said. “It's for a school paper.”

Yongsu said there were plenty. His dad had shelves of Korean history books.

“Problem is they're written in Korean,” he said.

“Yeah, that's a big problem for me.” I glanced at my watch. It was five thirty. I was starving, and that burger smell was torturing me.

“Yongsu!” his mom called from the window. She shouted something in Korean, and even I could figure out it meant “Get your butt inside.”

On my way back to Shear Impressions, I practiced saying my Korean name, Duk-kee, the way Yongsu had pronounced it. But it just didn't sound right coming out of my mouth.

M
om came home from work as the sun was setting on Wednesday. She had dark circles under her eyes and a cardboard box of fried chicken in her hands.

“I had one heck of an afternoon perming crabby Mrs. Congelosi. After an hour of wrapping her whole head in medium-sized silver rollers—and listening to her complain about her daughter-in-law—she changes her mind and says she wants tight
blue
rollers. And then she had the nerve to tell
me
to hurry up! No way am I cooking,” she declared.

Dad took the chicken from Mom and wrapped his arms around her. “Aristotle said beauty is a gift from God. Let me behold the present He's bestowed on me!”

“Oh, spare me your Greek philosophy and kiss me,” she said.

They kissed, this drawn-out smooch that made me feel embarrassed. Mom and Dad may be over forty and set in their suburban ways, but they still act like they've got raging hormones.

Luckily my sisters didn't see them lock lips. That always gets them squealing and making “yuck faces.” They were in the family room, working on a thousand-piece Noah's Ark puzzle—which, of course, would never get assembled without a fight and pathetic pleas for help.

Dad opened the back sliding door. “I'm going to water the tomato plants.”

“I'll set the table,” I said.

“That would be nice, Joseph,” Mom said, looking surprised. I don't usually jump up at the chance to help in the kitchen.

Alone at last with Mom. I could ask what she knew about the day I was born. Seeing Yongsu and his parents got me wondering even more. Plus, I still had to give Nash some more info for the search, since my talk with Dad was a bust.

“Can I ask you a few questions, Mom?”

She gave me a curious look. “Ask away.”

“Do you know my birth parents' names, or where the adoption agency found me?” I folded the napkins in triangles, concentrating so I wouldn't have to look at her.

Mom started to say something, then paused. “I planned on sharing this with you at a special time. When you were…well, a bit older.”

“Sharing what?” I asked.

“The information the adoption agency gave us. But it isn't much, Joseph.”

“I really want to know whatever it is,” I pleaded. “Now.”

She took a breath before she began. “They told us they found you in the south of Pusan, by the waterfront, in a police station parking lot. An old woman was walking back from the fish market in the afternoon when she heard a baby crying. You were lying in a basket, wrapped in a blanket.”

This sounded like the Baby Moses story. Had I floated down a river in Pusan too?

“What was my birth mother's name?”

“They didn't give us any names.”

“What day did the old woman find me?”

“May seventh,” Mom said, rubbing the top of my head with her fingertips.

“Well, since my birthday is May fifth, that meant my birth mother took care of me for two days. Maybe she felt torn and didn't want to give me up,” I said.

Mom nodded. I noticed her eyes were watery. It made me feel kind of guilty.

“Move, Frazer!” Sophie yelled from the family room. That old boxer loved to park himself in inconvenient places, like right on top of the puzzle.

“What's got you thinking about all this, honey?” Mom asked.

Should I tell her about the essay? I wanted to, but she was practically crying already. I didn't want to make her feel like she wasn't a good-enough mom.

“I just met this new kid at school today, and he's Korean. That's all.”

She nodded and started scooping mashed potatoes from the plastic container onto the plates. She didn't seem as upset anymore.

I kept imagining how it all happened in Pusan fourteen years ago. “Maybe it was a baby-snatching conspiracy and the lady who found me was in on it,” I said. “She could have kidnapped me, realized she was going to get caught, and then dropped me at the police station with that story so they wouldn't suspect anything.”

“I don't think so,” Mom answered. “The adoption
agency told us that's just the way babies are left in Korea. Birth mothers pick spots where they know their babies will be safe and get discovered quickly.”

Then Mom continued, as if trying to convince me she was right. “Unmarried Korean women can't keep their babies, Joseph. Having a child before marriage is taboo there, much worse than here. Mothers without husbands are outcasts. Sometimes they can't even find jobs or homes. I think your birth mother knew you both would have had a difficult life if she'd kept you.”

“Why do Koreans make the mothers feel so bad?” I asked. “That's dumb.”

“I've read that Koreans have mixed feelings about adoption. Some think it's unnatural, but others feel terrible that they don't do a better job taking care of children in their country. I think it's so sad, especially for the birth mothers.”

I thought about Mrs. Han's face when I said I was adopted. I must have been a breathing reminder of all those abandoned babies back in her country. “Well, maybe my birth mother
was
married to my birth father and they just didn't have enough money to raise a kid,” I said. “Or she could have gotten sick. Isn't that possible too?”

“I suppose,” Mom said, nodding, although she looked doubtful.

Through the window I watched Dad reel the hose in. I better wrap this up.

“Do you know anything else? I mean, about me before America?”

Mom closed her eyes as if she were thinking hard.

“Your birth mother had tucked a note under your blanket. We never got it—and I'm sure it was written in Korean—but the adoption agency told us about it. She asked that you be raised Christian. That's part of the reason you came to us.”

“What about my Korean name, Duk-kee?” I asked, just as Dad opened the sliding glass door.

“Just what I've told you already, honey. Your birth mother named you Duk-kee. It's a common name in Korea.”

Dad came inside and washed his hands. “What are you two talking about?”

“Joseph was asking about the day he was born and his name. His Korean name,” she said.

Dad nodded and looked at me. “Your mom was set on naming you Joseph after the saint when you arrived safely, but I was partial to Antonio.”

“Yeah, Dad, I sure look like an Antonio.” I was teasing, but I wasn't, too.

“We could've picked worse. You could've been
baptized…Luigi!” He shouted it loud, intentionally exaggerating an Italian accent.

“Luigi?” I made my ultra-disgusted face.

“Don't pay any attention to your father. He wanted Gina to be named Philomena. I put my foot down on that one.” She was unscrewing the cork from a bottle of merlot, Dad's favorite.

“Thanks for talking, Mom,” I said. I felt bad inside. Like I should have said, “None of this matters. You're my real mom, after all.”

“Anytime you wanna talk, Joseph, we talk.”

I couldn't talk anymore, even if I wanted to. My head hurt from all this heavy info. I would call Nash and tell him everything after dinner, but for now I didn't want to think about it.

“Gina, you're messing up the whole puzzle!” Sophie shouted. “The camel's hump doesn't go behind the zebra's tail.”

“Don't blame me. Noah brought too many animals on this ark,” Gina whined. “Can you help us, Joseph?”

I sat on the carpet next to my sisters and picked up a puzzle piece—an orange striped tail. “Let's get this ark built so these fur balls don't drown. Besides, chow's on the table and my stomach is growling like this tiger.”

“G
o away,” I shouted, knowing the Lilliputian knocking on the other side of the door was one of my sisters.

Who
wouldn't
be grouchy? I was trapped in my bedroom dungeon, slaving away on my essay. My doomed essay. Even with all the details I had given him, Nash still couldn't find anything.
And
his computer crashed. He said it had some sort of virus—probably caused by the
malocchio
since I wasn't wearing my goat horn.

It was still sunny out, and the sound of kids playing in the distance was dogging me.

I picked up one of the library books. It had a map of North and South Korea on the cover and a photo of Mount Hallasan, the tallest mountain in South Korea.

I reread the assignment sheet for the twentieth time: “Your essay must fully explore your ancestry and reflect on its impact on your life.”

Why did Mrs. Peroutka have to turn social studies into soul searching?

“Guess what, Joseph!” Gina squeaked from the hallway.

“What?”

“We're making chocolate chip milkshakes!”

“Bring one up to me. I'm busy.”

I heard Gina run downstairs and then back upstairs again. “Mommy says no food out of the kitchen. You know the rule. Come down,” she pleaded again.

“Maybe later.”

After scanning a hundred pages in the book, my yellow notepad was still wordless. The “I've Got Nothing to Say Korean Heritage Tale” by Joseph Calderaro.

Dozens and dozens of Korean faces stared up at me from the pages. People from the Yi Dynasty all the way to the Korean War, and yet I couldn't find a way to get started. To stick
me
in the story.

A couple of pictures showed Koreans who led this
surprise counterattack when Japan invaded in 1910. I never knew that Japan invaded Korea. Or that these scrappy Korean nationalists waged such a fight against the odds to resist. They reminded me of minutemen from the Revolutionary War, except with black hair, buttonhole eyes, and swords instead of rifles.

A few pages later I saw this faded photo of a short, muscular Korean runner. He wore a medal around his neck and he looked serious, like most people in old pictures. Yet there was something bold about him, with his defiant eyes, spiky hair, and puckered lips, ready to take on the world. He had something to prove.

The photo caption said his name was Sohn Kee Chung. He won a gold medal for the men's marathon at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. They called it “Hitler's Games” because it was right before World War II, when Hitler used the Olympics to show off his power.

Sohn Kee Chung represented Japan, which occupied Korea. He probably looked mad because he had to wear a Japanese team jersey, the trademark of the invaders.

Now
here
was a Korean who inspired me. Someone I could relate to…and
be
related to? Maybe Sohn Kee Chung could be my grandfather, and I could write my essay about
him
! Why not? It was a harmless idea. Mrs. Peroutka would get all gaga when she read my saga, I'd
get a good grade, and my parents and I would avoid any more painful pangs caused by talking about adoption.

“Last chance for a milkshake, Joseph,” Gina called from downstairs. “And just for you, we used
real
chocolate bars and Lactaid milk to make them!”

Real chocolate bars? “Okay, okay, I'm coming!” I saved my place in the book. Now the essay actually seemed doable. Still a pain in the butt, but at least I had a cool name and face to relate to.

 

“Not too short around the ears,” I told Aunt Foxy as she snipped away at my hair.

“Don't worry,” she said. She knew I didn't want my ears sticking out like a Chihuahua's.

Aunt Foxy has cut my hair ever since I started middle school. That's because Mom can't resist the temptation to style my hair like an upside-down bowl, the way she did in my preschool days. So Mom and I struck a deal. Aunt Foxy is allowed to cut my hair any way I want and Mom can't say boo—as long as I don't pierce any body parts.

Aunt Foxy was snipping along my neck and talking with Mom, who was at the sink rinsing Mrs. Bertolotti's body wave.

“What a jerk Walt turned out to be,” Aunt Foxy said.
“Cheap, too. He actually expected
me
to pay for the cheesecake and espresso last night. This, after he told me we were through!”

“Good riddance to him. What's that saying? A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle,” Mom said.

“Without
two
bicycles,” Aunt Foxy added, laughing. Then she looked down and smiled. “A friend of yours came in for a cut and blow-dry the other day, Joseph.”

“Who?”

“A blonde with natural highlights. Hair past her shoulders and no split ends.”

“She have a name?”

“Kelly, I think it was.”

Wow! Just days ago, Kelly Gerken had sat in this very chair. I felt starstruck, like when you go to a restaurant and see a framed photo of a celebrity dining there.

“She said we were
friends
?”

“She said a lot more than that—how funny you are and how you make her laugh. She's a looker all right, and very picky about her hair. If she weren't your friend, I would've told her to chill out, what with all her bossy orders about evening out her layers.”

She thinks I'm funny? I make her laugh?

Mrs. Bertolotti shuffled back from the sink to Mom's cutting station. The lady walked so slow it shouldn't even
be called walking, but she'd had a stroke a few years ago and was way up there in years.

“Since when does Kelly come here for haircuts?” I asked.

“Since Tiffany, that wenchy hairdresser at Beau Coup, ran off to LA and deserted her customers.” Aunt Foxy ran the razor across what I call my sideburns.

“Did Kelly say anything about having a boyfriend?”

“Nope. Besides, Joseph, it doesn't matter. At your age boyfriends are like credit cards. A girl can switch any time she gets a better deal.”

Aunt Foxy sprinkled talc on my neck and unfastened the plastic smock. I got up and saw Mrs. Bertolotti was still only halfway to Mom's station. I took her arm and helped her along. She smiled through thick glasses that made her blue eyes look like giant gum balls.

“You're going to make one fine husband, Joseph,” she said. Her bony hand trembled, and she smelled like roses.

“I hope Mr. Bertolotti doesn't catch us arm in arm like this,” I said, and she chuckled.

I smiled back. I liked making Mrs. Bertolotti laugh. And I'd finally gotten my foot in the door of Kelly's world.