Triplines (9781936364107) (22 page)

He read in a kung-fu book how Shaolin monks would meditate at sunrise and sunset, and although he has tried meditating at sunrise, he has trouble focusing, his mind spinning with everything he has to do. Reading and exercising seem to be better for him in the morning. But now, in the early evenings as he begins to wind down, it's easier for him to calm his thoughts.

Lenny sits cross-legged and practices his breathing. He watches the sun fall slowly behind the trees as the sky turns orange. He empties his mind and tries to focus on steadying his breath. As he inhales and exhales, the sun drops below the horizon and the sky turns purple, and he feels a momentary and immense welling of emotion, of happiness and serenity and centeredness that startles him. Then the feeling disappears. He slows his breathing even further, trying to recapture the feeling, but he can't. It will be almost twenty-five years until he can find again that one moment of peace, when he will be rock climbing in the Sierras, and one morning he will scale a huge boulder at sunrise, sharing the top with a lizard, watching the sun warm the mountains.

Lenny remembers a time when the family was together, shortly after their move to Long Island when their father still had a good job. Because of the tumult of settling into a new house and new neighborhood they were all bound by the unfamiliarity of their surroundings. One night they went to a local restaurant, Beefsteak Charlie's, which his father wanted to try because of their All You Can Eat shrimp.

They sat in a large booth, the lights dim and the noises muted by thick curtains hanging along the walls. After they filled their plates with shrimp and salad from the buffet bar, their father told them a story about when he first came to the United States. He had been through the Korean War, with all kinds of food shortages, especially beef, so when he started graduate school in Florida and saw steak and seafood houses everywhere, he couldn't believe it.

“I ate steak every night for a week until I got sick,” he told them. He pointed to the menu in front of him. “Look at all the different kinds of steak! This is America, the land of steak.”

Their mother laughed and said something to him in Korean. He smiled. Ed announced that he wanted a big rare steak, and Mira said she wanted ice cream.

“Steak and ice cream together?” their father said.

Mira made a face, making him laugh. Lenny wouldn't know this until later, but this was one of the only times they ever had a normal, fun family dinner.

He has searched his memory for more good family times like these, but none surface. No, the good memories occur later when, as adults, he and his siblings reconnect with each other and their mother, when he talks to them about
this time, although, curiously, he seems to recall small, esoteric details that no one else does.

Lenny, as a child, has glimmers of understanding that every moment, good or bad, joyful or frightening, means something. Perhaps this is, ultimately, what draws him to become a writer, for it's the details and their significance that stay with him without his even trying.

He knows, for example, even as a kid, that the last time he and Mira break into the church, at the end of that summer, is important, somehow. He suspects this because, first, it's morning. Mira wants to play her viola on stage, but when they enter the main sanctuary area and stand on the pulpit, they're surprised by the bright sun shining through the stained glass windows. They had always come here in the late afternoon or evening, so the eastern-facing windows have never been illuminated. But now, this morning, the pews are brilliant with greens and blues, and the shafts of dusty sunlight beam down onto the worn red carpeting.

Mira and Lenny stand there for a moment, awed, registering the beauty. Mira then pulls out her viola, tunes it, and begins playing scales. She sits on the dais leading up to the pulpit, and warms up her fingers. Lenny sits in the front pew and listens while staring up at the stained glass images of circles and suns and glowing crosses highlighted with rays of light. Mira then plays what Lenny later learns is a simplified version of a Bach sonata, and although she's tentative at first, the notes squeaky, she soon repeats it with more confidence, and Lenny sits back, feeling that this moment is special. He knows that the end of this summer marks the end of a tumultuous time in their family. He knows that a new school, new friends, the beginning of a new life, await
all of them. And when he watches his sister playing a sonata in the brilliant sunlight, her face beaming with delight, and he stares up at the stained glass windows colorful and radiant, he knows he has to remember this moment, remember this image, because it makes him truly and deeply happy.

Thanks to my first readers: Frances Sackett, Linda Davis, Claudette Groenendaal and Jillian Lauren; to my editor of eighteen years, Jerry Gold; to the Merrick Library; to the many Los Angeles friends who helped me get situated, including the Chehaks, the Erspamers, and Carole Kirschner; to my friends at
Awake
and
Justified
; to my mother Umee Chang Pepe, my brother Ed Chang, my sister-in-law Raafia Mazhar Chang, my sister Mira Chang; and a special thanks to Toni Ann Johnson for everything.

Many names have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent. Although my mother and siblings checked and verified this account with their recollections, any errors and misremembrances are entirely mine.

Leonard Chang was born in New York City and studied philosophy at Dartmouth College and Harvard University. He received his MFA from the University of California at Irvine, and is the author of seven novels. His books have been translated into Japanese, French and Korean, and are taught at universities around the world. His short stories have been published in journals such as
Prairie Schooner
and
The Literary Review
. He lives in Los Angeles, and writes for the TV drama
Justified
. For more information, visit his web site at
www.LeonardChang.com
.