What I Leave Behind Read online

  To the sweet memories of Garvin Wong and Jeanyee Wong, who filled my life with blessings beyond measure

  You ever had real cornbread?

  Like from a cast iron skillet stuck in the oven to preheat while you mix the batter? A hot, hot oven. So hot that before you open the door you have to put oven mitts on your hands.

  And when you take the cast iron skillet out, you pour in a little melted butter and it hisses, the skillet’s that hot, and then you pour in the batter and it starts to brown and puff around the edges even before you put the skillet back in.

  That kind of cornbread, that’s the kind I mean.

  You got your various cornbreads, my dad used to say. You got your nonsweet southern, your sweetish northern. And then you got your dad’s cornbread.

  The way he said it was like he was speaking in boldface. You know?

  Dad’s cornbread.

  He used to put it together from a recipe in his head. Maybe I’ll try to make it tonight. I do that sometimes, try to re-create the recipe. Try to make it come out the way his did.

  I keep the cast iron skillet in my closet. Eggs in the fridge. Butter. No milk, but that’s okay. Water works.

  Sometimes you got to walk the day out of you. You know? Walk it right out through the soles of your feet.

  Dollar Only’s closed now, my shift is over, it’s Tuesday night, which means my mom’s got the overnight shift and she’s not going to notice if I’m not home.

  The night and its sidewalks are right out that door.

  Wring out the mop, empty the bucket, sign out. Say goodbye to Major Tom, waiting to lock up and exit out the back door to his car.

  Major Tom, he’s not a walker. Most people aren’t. But I am.

  Tonight the air itself is dark. That happens sometimes. It’s not just the lack of sun, it’s the presence of darkness.

  If you’re a walker, a real walker, your feet can figure out the right route. Sometimes the right route is one that goes past the places you love, like the cathedral, like the park off Whittier, like the Grand Central Market and its stalls.

  Sometimes the right route is the route not past other places, places you maybe love but can’t walk by right now.

  Like Playa’s house.

  Like the blessings store.

  Like the river bridge over Fourth Street.

  Let your feet find the way. You’ll know it when they do. Then let the day drain out of you. Let whatever comes into your head just float around in there.

  What’s in there tonight? Cornbread. Black cast iron cornbread like my dad used to make.

  And that raggy little blanket Playa used to carry to school in her backpack, back in elementary school.

  And the case in the back of the blessings store, a hundred blessings all numbered in Chinese.

  To unbreak your broken heart.

  To make a cloud of safety around you.

  To light at night for peace.

  How I got the job at Dollar Only was I saw the ad posted in the corner of the window.

  So why here? said Major Tom. Why Dollar Only?

  I need to start saving up. College.

  And where did you see our ad?

  Well, I walk past here pretty much every day. On the way to school.

  Ah, school. Where do you go?

  Mountain High.

  Oh yes? There’s a song called “Rocky Mountain High.” You ever hear it?

  Um, yeah. My mom likes that song.

  Well, you tell your mom she’s got good taste! Can you work nights and weekends?

  This interview was in Major Tom’s office, which is what he calls it even though it’s a closet next to the employee bathroom that he shoved a desk and roller chair into.

  There’s a big corkboard on the wall that he pins motivational quotes on.

  If you can dream it, you can do it.

  With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.

  A life lived without purpose is no life at all.

  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

  It’s like he intentionally searched for the lamest quotes in the history of the world. You know?

  Walk one day out and another day in: home, school, work.

  At first I used to call Major Tom by his name, Mr. Montalvo.

  But he doesn’t want me to. Call me Tom, Will!

  Which at first I interpreted as him wanting to be called Tom Will, which is weird. But no. Will’s my name and Tom’s his name, the name he wants me to call him.

  I’d been there a week at this point, and already I knew that Dollar Only is pretty much his life.

  Some people, they’re like that. They smile in a kind of helpless way.

  So I did what I do with people like Major Tom: jump in and start giving them shit. Then they feel included. Like they’re part of the world, like they have actual friends. Like someone sees them.

  Why I started calling him Major Tom?

  Because he likes music, and he’s about my mom’s age, so I figure he must know that Bowie song, that “Space Oddity” one she loves. About Major Tom.

  Bowie was old but cool. So a nickname like Major Tom would make Mr. Montalvo feel cool.

  Which it does. Because how could it not? I mean, Bowie.

  Music is the refuge of the lonely, my dad used to say.

  That, and Carry on, my wayward son.

  And Don’t let the bastards get you down.

  And a bunch of other things. But those are the ones I think about the most. Music isn’t only the refuge of the lonely, but still, I know what he meant. Like with Major Tom.

  “Ground control to Major Tom,” I say over the loudspeaker when I need Mr. Montalvo at the register.

  “Commencing countdown! Engines on!” is what he usually says. Right back over the loudspeaker. And then he hurries right over.

  Sometimes he sings part of the song, the line about the spaceship knowing which way to go, and another one about how much he loves his wife.

  Mr. Montalvo doesn’t have a spaceship and he doesn’t have a wife. But he loves it when I call him Major Tom.

  Things aren’t easy for Major Tom. Social skills kinds of things, you know?

  Some things aren’t easy for me, either, but that’s not one of them. I know how to give people shit, when to step forward, when to pull back. It’s like a dance where you’re born knowing the steps.

  Not Major Tom, though.

  Sometimes, when I’m closing, I see him sitting there in his closet-slash-office. Going over the schedule. Writing e-mails. And every time he thinks he hears someone coming, he swivels around, with that awkward-person smile.

  Once—it’s really late because some kid spilled an entire bottle of detergent in Aisle 9—I see him close his eyes, jab his finger on one of his motivational quotes, then open his eyes and read it out loud. And nod. Like his socially awkward life will change now.

  And honestly, I can hardly stand it. That little nod. You know?

  Remember that cornbread your dad used to make?

  That’s what Playa said to me at that party.

  It’s been a long time since Mountain Elementary. Years since we used to play at each other’s houses, back before the girls and boys split into separate factions. But me and Playa, we’ll always be friends. You can’t forget the elementary years.

  Will? Remember?

  She’d stuck a Bugle on each fingertip like we used to do when we were kids. She waved them in my face, like, Remember this too? She was talking loud over the music. Shouting, almost.

  Yeah, Playa. I remember.

  Walk and walk and walk the day out. It’s like a mantra.

  Like Major Tom with his If at first you don’t succeed, and like my dad with his Don’t let the bastards get
you down, and like Dear Mrs. Lin, which is what my dad called the lady at the blessings store, with her Help you?

  Okay, maybe not like her. Been a long time since I was in the blessings store. A looong time. Maybe Dear Mrs. Lin’s not even there anymore.

  I’m almost home. Maybe I’ll get out the skillet. Make my offering to the cornbread ghosts.

  The hundred blessings display is at the back of the blessings store. Each numbered with a Chinese number.

  It’s been a long time since I was in there, spying on Dear Mrs. Lin when she was arranging them. Weird shit. Weird to my dad and me, anyway. Like a ceramic hand or a bunch of dried-up herbs. Each with a specific purpose.

  Blessing for the dead.

  Blessing for the afraid.

  Blessing for the lost.

  Why those blessings just popped into my head, who knows. The mind, she works in mysterious ways. Or so our third-grade art teacher used to say.

  Cornbread fail. Too much cornmeal, not enough flour. Not enough butter, too much baking powder.

  Shit, I don’t know. I’m not the one who had the recipe in his head. I wrap it up in wax paper and walk to Dollar Only next day by way of First so I can give it to Superman.

  Today Superman’s sitting against the brick wall of the alley between City of Angels Guitar and Payday Loans.

  “You hungry, Superman?”

  He nods, bows his head, and I set it into his outstretched palms.

  “Carry on, my wayward son,” I say, and I keep moving.

  There’s this kid who lives over on State. I see him outside sometimes, if I’m walking by before a night shift. Scrubby little backyard with a couple random hibiscus stuck in it.

  Black hair, brown skin, brown eyes. Skinny. Little smiley dude, is how I think of him. He’s like six, maybe seven.

  He’s out there today. Alone. I figure I’ll check on him.

  “Hey, little dude, what’s up?”

  “Mister, come here!”

  I’m sixteen, right? First time anyone’s ever called me “mister.”

  “I’m waiting for the butterflies,” he says. “Five butterflies land on the garage wall every day at 5:20.”

  I figure the little dude’s maybe a tiny bit off, you know? But whatever. He’s waiting for me to walk over to the chain-link fence he’s standing by. So over I go.

  “Watch, mister,” he says. “They’ll come.”

  I wait with him. Why not? I don’t have to be at Dollar Only until 5:30. And hell if five butterflies don’t appear right when the little dude said they would. I check my phone: 5:20.

  “Whoa! You weren’t shittin me, little dude.”

  Kid doesn’t blink an eye. He just nods. Stares at the butterflies and smiles.

  “Nope,” he says. “I wasn’t.”

  How weird is that? Five butterflies every day, and the little dude waiting for them. Like a miniature butterfly scientist or something. How did he even figure it out?

  So we get this shipment of plastic binoculars the next day.

  “Where do you want these, Major Tom? Toys or Tools?”

  “Your call, Dollar Will,” he says, with this huge smile. So proud he came up with that nickname. I picture him in his office-slash-closet, thinking it up.

  I smile and shake my head like I’m blown away by his creativity, to make him happy. Which it does.

  On to Toys.

  I open the box with my box cutter, which isn’t allowed in Dollar Only but which I bring anyway because screw that. And guess what? The binoculars have butterflies painted on them.

  “Little butterfly dude!” I say out loud. That’s my new name for him.

  I buy a pair, then and there, 15% employee discount, which brings the total to $.85, and I go to the break room to stash them in my locker.

  Major Tom’s in his closet-slash-office. He swivels around. That hopeful look on his face.

  “ ‘Little butterfly dude,’ ” he says. “Is that a line from a song?”

  He must have overheard me. Now he’s hoping he’s guessed right.

  “Not yet,” I say. “Maybe you’re the man to write it.”

  When Major Tom smiles for real, like now, you can see his snaggle tooth. A story makes itself up in my head, him as a little kid and his mom making him grilled cheese and teasing him about his snaggle tooth, but in a nice-mom kind of way.

  Music is the refuge of the lonely, I can hear my dad say in my head.

  Don’t let the bastards get you down, I tell him. Also in my head.

  After I close—“Time to leave the capsule, Major Tom,” “Hang tight, Dollar Will!”—I take the alley home, which ordinarily I wouldn’t do, because obviously, but I walk hard and tall, no earbuds, hand in pocket on my box cutter, down the middle of the alley between State and First.

  The chain-link fence around the little dude’s house doesn’t have a gate, which is weird. But that’s good, because whenever I see him, he’s out there alone. I ease the binoculars down into the weeds around one of the random hibiscus near the garage.

  There you go, little dude.

  “Mister! Look what I got!”

  It’s the next day. He’s rigged up a scraggly strap—looks like wool unraveled from an old sweater—and the binoculars are dangling around his neck.

  “Holy shit! Where’d you get them?”

  He looks at me like I’m dumb, like the answer’s obvious.

  “From the butterflies. They brought them when I was asleep.”

  Then he puts them up to his eyes. They cover his whole face—he’s a tiny kid, little butterfly dude is—and I have to keep walking. It’s like that night I saw Major Tom nodding at his motivational quotes. You know?

  It was like our fifth-grade field trip to the La Brea Tar Pits. School bus jouncing its way across the city, purple jacarandas all in bloom.

  José the fat kid sitting by himself, staring out the window, eating Cheese Doodles.

  Crunchcrunchcrunchswallow. Crunchcrunchcrunch- swallow.

  Then he finished the bag and turned and saw everyone laughing at him.

  The look on his face.

  Playa looked at me from her seat. She knew how I felt. She felt the same way.

  That kind of thing has to be walked out through the soles of your feet. But I didn’t know that yet, back then.

  When Playa pushed through the crowd to ask about my dad’s cornbread, I wondered—did she still think about him? All the cornbread he made for us?

  I didn’t answer. I left.

  After I left the party, is when it happened.

  To Playa, who I’ve known since kindergarten. To Playa, whose parents so love the beach they used to make up songs about it. Playa this, playa that. Hell if they didn’t name their only baby Playa.

  Life’s a beach and then you die, I said once to Playa, giving her shit. She laughed. She always laughed at my jokes.

  There was one Playa and three guys. Do I need to say anything else? No. I don’t.

  Her friend Angie got drunk and left without her. Playa fell asleep on a pile of jackets, waiting for her. Angie got drunk and left without her. Playa fell asleep. People keep saying that, angry at Angie.

  “I don’t care if Angie got drunk. I don’t care if Playa fell asleep.”

  My mom. Slit-eyed. Quiet-voiced, which is her when she’s most pissed.

  “You’re telling me that’s why they locked the door and raped her? Like that’s the only logical outcome? That’s the explanation?”

  She looked me up and down. She does that sometimes. Like she’s suddenly realizing that I’m male, and can I be trusted or am I just another rapist?

  I waved my hand in front of her face, like, Hello, look at me, I’m Will, your nonrapist son.

  Her face softened.

  “I’m sorry, Will. It just enrages me. Were you at that party?”

  “Yeah.” The party was on a Tuesday mom-at-work night, a cornbread-attempt night. “But I left way early.”

  “Do you know them? These rapists?”<
br />
  No. I don’t know them. Not really.

  Playa’s the one I know. Or used to.

  Today she brings it up again, saying how broken hearted Playa’s parents are, and have I talked to Playa.

  About what? The rape? No. My dad? No. Cornbread? No.

  I haven’t talked to Playa about anything real in years, but I don’t tell my mom that. I pick up my box cutter and head to the door.

  It’s not like I don’t think about it all the time. I can’t always talk about things, though.

  “Will? I’m sorry.”

  I stop at the door. Turn around.

  “For what?”

  But she’s shaking her head. Like she doesn’t even know what she’s sorry for.

  I go by way of State so I can see the little butterfly dude, but he’s not out today.

  You know how sometimes someone’s face comes into your head?

  And it’s like you can almost see them and almost hear their voice?

  And you wish you could see them right at that moment? Like somehow the world would be instantly better?

  That’s how I feel about the kid, even though I don’t know his name. Or if he’s got parents or a pet lizard or whatever. Friends. Someone to play with, the way Playa and I used to play together.

  Paolo and Sam and Kendrick.

  Playa.

  That’s what they were known as last month. By names and nicknames: Pow. Sammy-boy. Kendrick, who’s nickname-resistant. And Playa, who never had one to begin with.

  Except not anymore.