Everything I Heard

Everything I Heard

A Personal Response to The Paper Menagerie

Style: Short Story

 

 

My parents thought I couldn’t hear them.

 

At least, they assumed that I was not listening. Or maybe they knew that I was, but saw no reason to lower their voices. Either way, against my younger self’s volition – at that point in time I was mainly preoccupied with how exactly I was planning to show off my new Obi-Wan toy to my friends at school on Monday – my ears were almost entirely turned in to my parents’ conversation in the kitchen, even as I pressed the button to make Obi-Wan go, “Use the Force!” My parents didn’t flinch; they’d grown used to the random outbursts from the toy they’d gotten me, as I never tired of it. They were probably already regretting the purchase.

 

“I’ve thought and thought about it,” my mother said, “and I still cannot figure out why any self-respecting man would do what he did. It simply does not make sense.”

 

I remember, at the time, curiously wondering who this man was and what exactly he’d done. “Use the Force!” Obi-Wan said again.

 

“Mary and Anita told me that they paid a visit to the house the other day,” my mother continued, “and it just seemed like something was wrong the moment they stepped in through the door. The woman hardly said a word, just stood around and smiled like a fool.”

 

I pressed Obi-Wan’s button again. “Use the Force!”

 

My father shook his head at that, chuckling deeply. “Is the boy mute also?”

 

“No. Apparently, he can speak English.”

 

“Oh, good. So the man didn’t completely fail, then.”

 

“Yes, but you’ve seen the child. So odd-looking. How do you have such a pale face with the tiny oblique eyes… the features together are just so bizarre. I almost feel sorry for the poor boy; how’s he ever going to fit in at school? Or anywhere, really.”

 

Oh, they were talking about Jack. The extent of my knowledge about him was that he was quiet at school, with just a handful of friends, and we’d only exchanged a few words a handful of times. Why my parents would ever deign to speak about him was beyond me. He looked weird, yes, but I figured there were many kids who did, even if his own looks were somewhat different.

 

“Well, that’s what happens when you pick a woman out of a catalogue.” I heard my father pause as he took a sip from his mug of tea. “The marriage was peculiar enough, but then they had to make a blended anomaly.”

 

My finger found the button on Obi-Wan again, but this time, I barely heard him.

 

“I suppose one child is better than none,” my mother snorted. “Even with some Asian maid for a wife.” A sudden peal of laughter burst forth from between her lips. “How much do you think he paid for her?”

 

“Sarah!” my father cried, as if he was scandalized. But he was chortling too. “Not much, hopefully. She doesn’t look very brand new.” I peeked into the kitchen to see my parents exchange a meaningful glance. “But what are we going to do about this invitation?”

 

My mother seemed worried suddenly. “If we don’t let him go, we’ll look snobby. But I can’t say I’m thrilled about the idea.”

 

“Let’s ask him.” My father got up from the dining table chair and stepped into the living room, where I’d promptly averted my attention back to the action figures laid out on the carpet. He placed a large hand on my shoulder, and I glanced up at him. “Mark, son. You know Jack, don’t you?”

 

“Yes,” I replied meekly. “From school.”

 

“Would you like to go and play at his house tomorrow?”

 

I perked up immediately at the chance to show my new Obi-Wan figure to anyone, even if it was to a boy from school whom I virtually never spoke to. But I hesitated then, thinking back to the conversation I had just heard. My eyes found my mother sitting in the dining room, then roved back to my father in front of me. Yet, I couldn’t read their expressions. “Yes,” I said finally.

 

They exchanged another glance, and I was left with the distinct feeling that I’d given the wrong answer.

 

 

That visit is much too vivid in my mind for something that happened decades ago.

 

He showed me his toys. They were origami animals, and the younger me scoffed at them. I think some part of me, even at that age, was a little bit jealous. Because as much as I gloated about my figurines and was grateful to my parents for spending a substantial amount on acquiring them for me, deep down, I knew that they would never make me something to play with – even if they could. As an only child, I was always left to amuse myself. Expensive toys didn’t require much thought – as long as I stayed entertained by them, there wasn’t much work left to be done. But making a toy for your son, taking the time to construct it… that required a deeper level of attention, of care. And maybe that’s why the origami irritated me so much, because I didn’t – I couldn’t – possess what they represented.

 

“Chinese trash.” That’s what I’d called them. Not particularly original, but Jack’s face had fallen immediately, and I’d taken a sick sort of delight in seeing it.

 

Then things really went south. He knocked Obi-Wan over, who broke. I lost it, made a comment about his father paying little to buy his mother. There might have been some pushing, maybe even a punch somewhere. I was angry, eager to leave his house by the time my parents arrived to pick me up. Mom was perfectly pleasant to his mother, but then I showed her my broken figure in the car and she immediately announced that I was to never go back there again.

 

I didn’t complain.

 

I tormented him for two weeks straight, supported by my band of friends. We called him names (these were unoriginal also – just words I’d picked up from listening to my parents), pulled his hair, and pushed him around because I was still angry about Obi-Wan. Funnily enough, I believe that was the extent of my motive for causing so much grief during that time. Because here’s the irony: I do not remember ever thinking about why he was strange until that conversation between my parents, and even after that, I still didn’t understand why he had been labelled as such. So his mother was Chinese. What did that have to do with anything? I never thought it was a problem, not really.

 

But everybody else thought they were strange, so I pretended they were too.

 

 

I saw him downtown sometime during early April.

 

It had been a long, long time. After school, we’d split ways completely. I had travelled away from home for my studies, living elsewhere until I’d decided, on a whim, to pay a visit to the place of my childhood. My family didn’t know I was coming, and now I entered a cab to take me to their address. As we passed that area of downtown where the Chinese tour buses stopped, I saw him. Did it mean something that he was the first person I recognized after returning?

 

I wasn’t sure.

 

And it had been a while, but I knew it was him. Immediately I asked the cab driver to come to a stop. He was confused but did as I asked, and I watched Jack make his way down the streets. He had an interesting expression on his face, troubled and sad and hopeful all at the same time. I watched it thoughtfully.

 

I wondered then: what had he been up to all these years? How was he? How were his parents? What was the world like for him? Better? Worse? Would he remember me and our interactions, or was I thinking too highly of my impact on him all those decades ago?

 

I could’ve done it. I could’ve climbed out of the cab right then, stepped onto the road, and gotten the answers to these questions myself.

 

But I didn’t, so I was left to wonder.

 

Even after all this time, I’d grown accustomed to the shame lingering in my gut. Because it didn’t matter that everything had happened when we were but foolish kids, it didn’t matter that we both hadn’t known any better as of then. It didn’t matter that I’d merely been parroting everything I’d heard about him from others, it didn’t matter that our judgmental society had warped everyone’s views of his family. It was all in the past, and we no longer had an impact on each other’s lives.

 

And I was sorry. I was. But it wouldn’t benefit either of us to bring it back up now. Why should I? He probably wouldn’t remember me, and even if he did, any apology I uttered now would just sound useless, hollow, pretentious.

 

Because how do you apologize for something you did when you didn’t know anything?

 

So I turned away, leaned back in my seat, and told the cab driver to take me home.

 

–

 

 

 

IMAGE REFERENCES:

• https://www.ctpost.com/news/article/Derby-s-downtown-headed-for-change-6782166.php
• https://www.istockphoto.com/photos/boys-fighting
• https://pixabay.com/illustrations/vintage-banner-fancy-decoration-1370182/