The Weight of Our Sky Read online

  Frankie leans back in his chair. “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?” Uncle Chong asks absently, busying himself with yet another list.

  “Why don’t we just ask the gang, the triad, to protect us?”

  There is a pause as his father and brother both turn to stare at him. He shrugs. “What? They would.”

  “They’re killing people,” his father says slowly. “Killing our neighbors, our friends.”

  “They’re killing Malays,” Frankie corrects him. “They’re killing the people who want to kill us. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

  Vincent rolls his eyes. “Right, it’s perfectly fine that they’re killing, so long as they’re not killing us.”

  Frankie glares at him, a steely glint in his eye. “Ya. Why not? I’ll do whatever it takes to protect our family. You think the Malays wouldn’t do the same, if they get the chance?”

  “None of the Malays I know would,” his father says gently. “None of my friends would.”

  Frankie grunts and subsides. Vincent rolls his eyes and goes to look for shovels, and in my corner of the living room, I feel sudden, inexplicable tears prickling the back of my throat, threatening to spill out of my eyes and splash onto the tattered rug below.

  • • •

  I had a religious teacher in school one year who was very passionate about teaching us about the concept of hell. While others had spent their time taking us through the basic tenets of our religion, the nuts and bolts of worship, the grace and mercy of God, she seemed to enjoy dwelling on His more fire-and-brimstone qualities, lingering over the agonies that awaited us come Judgment Day. “And this is why you must heed the lessons of the Quran,” she would intone solemnly, her eyes alight with a righteous fervor.

  Nothing she told us in that class prepares me for the hell I live through in those first few days at Auntie Bee’s house.

  We spend our days packed with the neighbors into the gleaming white house on the hill, too afraid of the men with the hard eyes and the easy way with guns to risk leaving. Uncle Chong plays at optimism, telling us every day that “you see, things are getting better, any day now sure everyone can go home, don’t worry.” The houseguests are a motley assortment of stragglers: Ann and her baby, fair little Peggy with the shock of wispy dark hair, who seems to sleep most of the time and wail the rest of it; a white-haired, sari-clad Indian lady who calls herself Paati and who doesn’t say much, but makes her way into the kitchen each morning and insists on helping Auntie Bee prepare meals; Fairos, who strokes his thin mustache and radiates unease every time Frankie is in the same room, and often tries to talk to me “Malay to Malay,” which makes me uncomfortable; Auntie Letty and Uncle Francis, a Chinese couple who seem to be great friends with Auntie Bee and Uncle Chong; their twelve-year-old daughter, Annette, and her great friend Simone, who had been ready to spend the night at their house when everything fell apart.

  The sight of them, arm in arm, whispering confidences to each other in quiet corners, so firmly entangled that it is hard to know where one ends and the other begins, reminds me painfully of Saf. And the Djinn, as always, knows just where to jab at me so that his words leave the deepest wounds. That’s what you and Saf used to be, he taunts me. Always together, except when it mattered most. And now Mama is next. Every hour brings a fresh glimpse of death: Saf’s, my mother’s, both, together, individually, my fault every time. You failed them. You failed them. You failed them. I sacrifice every minute to the altar of the Djinn, tapping on this, counting that, over and over and over again, yet never getting to that moment when things felt “just right,” when my brain might stay quiet, when I can take in air and feel like I am actually breathing. Once or twice, I think I see Auntie Bee staring at me, her expression worried, but she leaves me alone.

  When there is so much broken about the world we currently live in, one cracked person is easy enough to excuse or ignore.

  On the third day, acrid, pungent gas steals in through the cracks in the doors and windows, and I wake up in Vincent’s bed coughing and gasping for air, tears streaming down my cheeks. At first, I think this is the end. The Djinn has finally decided to destroy me. Every breath burns a path straight through my body, and I feel as if my lungs are filled with fire.

  This is death, I think to myself, rubbing desperately at my stinging skin, my swollen eyes. This is how you die. I curl up in my borrowed bed and will the end to come quickly. If I’m honest, some small part of me thinks it might almost be a relief.

  Instead, Auntie Bee bustles into the room with a pail full of cold water and a cloth to gently wipe away the worst of the pain. “Tear gas,” she murmurs from behind the damp rag she’s tied over her own mouth and nose. I just nod. I’m not even sure what that is; all I know is that it hurts to breathe.

  The authoritative voice that comes crackling over the radio informs us that the curfew will be lifted for two hours, and we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. “We can finally go home,” Auntie Letty says, wiping away her tears. “Not home, Letty,” Uncle Francis says, handing her his handkerchief. “Not home. But maybe we can make it to your sister’s house in Cheras. It’ll be safer there.”

  One by one, they all make plans to head home or find relatives with whom they can shelter for the rest of the duration. I know Auntie Bee is sad to see them go. I know better than anyone what it feels like to want to protect the people you care about. But she merely bustles around, packing food, making sure everyone gets a bite to eat, arranging for the old Indian lady—“Paati,” she insists, jabbing at her chest, “You call Paati”—to get a ride to wherever she needs to go.

  I can tell Uncle Chong is relieved too at this lifting of the curfew; there have been enough mouths to feed that we’ve all been feeling the pinch of subsisting on watery, unsalted porridge, unripe bananas plucked prematurely from Auntie Bee’s trees, and boiled sweet potatoes and sweet potato leaves. We’re in desperate need of provisions to keep us going through however many more days we’ll be here.

  Watching the others leave, I ache to get out, find my mother, keep her safe. Hidden in my pocket, my fingers tap an ode to my desires. “Not yet,” Uncle tells me gently. “Not until we know more. Young ladies shouldn’t be out and about right now. Wait first, girl.”

  When the announcement is made, Uncle Chong takes Frankie with him and tells Vincent to stay behind, “just in case.” They set off, armed with heavy wooden sticks, and I see Auntie Bee pause by the door to stroke the little wooden cross, her head bowed. My heart is heavy with worry, and I can’t sit still; in my head, the Djinn adds them to the lineup as the latest stars of my own personal horror movies, their lives seeping away each time I shut my eyelids. Stop, I tell myself, stop thinking it, stop, you don’t want this, stop. But I can’t.

  I move around the room, touching each book and ornament, three quick, light little taps each time.

  “Would you stop fidgeting and sit down? You’re making me nervous,” Auntie Bee implores me. So I sit and tap my feet instead, three times a side, willing the time to pass quickly and for Uncle and Frankie—yes, even Frankie—to make it home in one piece.

  We sit this way in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Auntie Bee speaks. “We used to live in Kampung Baru, you know, girl? Years ago, when the boys were both this small,” she says, bringing her hands down to indicate a level just below her waist. “Uncle had a shop there. That’s where you live, right?”

  I nod. “Why did you leave, Auntie?”

  “Oh, you know. The Malays didn’t like us very much.” She pauses and thinks about this for a second. “No, that’s not true. They liked us fine, I think. They accepted us. We were part of their scenery. We had plenty of customers; the boys had plenty of friends to play with. I think it was the idea of us that they didn’t like. You know lah, they would never say it straight out—Malays are so particular about giving face. But once in a while, someone would joke about pendatang, immigrants. Or they would refer to us as �
��you Chinese,’ laughing as they did it. Or make pointed little remarks about ‘outsiders’ stealing jobs.” She sniffs.

  The phrases are familiar; I feel a distinct, unsettling sting when I realize that I grew up with them, heard them so often they were reduced to nothing more than background noise. Taking away our opportunities. Heathens. Chinese pigs. Go back to where you came from. Malaysia for the Malays. Have I ever said any of those words? Do I believe any of it? The Djinn moves suddenly, rising from the depths, seizing this new idea gleefully. Maybe you haven’t. Maybe you will. Or maybe you already have. Haven’t you? Have I? I shake my head a little, trying to dislodge that needling voice, then shoot Auntie Bee a quick glance to see if she noticed. But she’s still wrapped up in her memories.

  “We didn’t really mind too much lah, not at first,” she continues, a faraway look on her face. “Or at least we tried not to. You Malays have this saying: Di mana bumi dipijak, di situ langit dijunjung. Do you know it?”

  “No, Auntie.”

  “It means where you plant your feet is where you hold up the sky.” She smiles slightly at my confused face. “Wherever you are, you must follow what the people there do, their customs, their ways,” she explains. “So we did. We bit our tongues when people whispered things behind our backs, or made those sharp little comments to our faces, or even spit on our door. We paid Alang our fees regularly, so hooligans wouldn’t cause us trouble. You know Alang?”

  I nod. Everyone knows Alang. He and his gang rule Kampung Baru, demanding protection money from residents and shopkeepers to keep their properties safe from harm, walking through the neighborhood with a swagger in their step, daring anyone to cross them. Nobody ever does; Alang has a short temper, a long list of grudges, and a very sharp knife.

  She sighs. “Everyone did it. We knew he asked us for more than our neighbors. But we paid anyway. No choice. What to do? That was our sky.”

  Auntie Bee leans back, rubbing her forehead. “Vincent was always a happy child. We never had to worry about him. And he was so young. He didn’t really notice these things. But Frankie was so sensitive. He took all those little sharp pokes and kept them in his heart. He started talking back. He started getting into fights. He let them make him bitter.” She sighs. “We left as soon as we realized what it was doing to him to stay. Luckily, your uncle is a hard worker; he got the shop he has now and made it pay. But we were too late. Those Kampung Baru fools gave Frankie a chip on his shoulder that’s weighed him down ever since.”

  • • •

  By the time they return, panting, arms laden with provisions, the sky is deepening to a mellow purple, streaked with orange from the rays of the setting sun, and in my head they have died thirteen times. Auntie Bee hovers around them anxiously. “Are you all right?” she asks, eyes scanning their bodies for signs of injury. “Are you hurt? Faster, tell me!”

  “We’re fine, Ma,” Frankie says irritably, untangling himself from her arms. “Here, we got some stuff for you.” He deposits the bags by the door and heads off for his room.

  “Not much, ah Bee,” Uncle Chong says quickly. “There isn’t much. The shops were smashed, you see. People have gone already, taken a bunch of things, looting. We could only get a few more things. Potatoes, one small bag of rice, some others . . .”

  Auntie Bee is busy perusing the bags, clicking her tongue in frustration. “Aiya,” she mumbles to herself. “Oh, well. We make do.”

  She glances at her husband. “How was it?” she asks quietly.

  He looks away, occupies himself rubbing at a spot of dirt on his trousers. “The streets are empty. Barricades everywhere, some with police, some with . . . others. A lot of burned-down buildings. Some . . . some bodies.”

  He gulps. “I saw one woman . . . They’d slashed her belly. There was a tin of milk powder nearby; it must have rolled out of her hands. She was brave enough to go get milk for her child, and that’s what she got for it.” He takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I hope wherever that child is, that he got some milk. I hope he’s safe.”

  He looks up then and notices me standing nearby, shivering despite the evening heat. “I’m sorry, Melati,” he tells me, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’ll be able to go home any time soon.”

  • • •

  That night, counting the books from my usual spot in Vincent’s bed, I hear a sudden shriek and race outside, my heart pounding, gripping my hammer.

  Auntie Bee is on her knees in the middle of the floor, her face ashen, weeping. Uncle Chong kneels beside her, his arms around her shoulders, trying his best to console her. Vincent leans against a nearby wall, arms crossed, his face grim. “What’s happening?” I ask him, doing my best to conceal my fear.

  “Frankie’s gone.” He sighs. “His bed is empty. He must have snuck out in the night while we slept.” He looks at his parents and shakes his head. “How can he do this to them? He may be my brother, but that stupid son of a bitch better be careful, because if those goons out there don’t kill him, I just might.”

  In the early hours of the morning, after a night where none of us slept and Auntie Bee merely sat on the settee, rocking back and forth and refusing to eat, drink, or speak, Frankie slips into the house.

  Under each arm, he holds two transistor radios. Two chickens, feet tied together with a length of rope, hang limply over one shoulder. “Hello!” he greets us cheerily, slipping his shoes off at the door. Vincent and I look at each other, then at Auntie Bee, who straightens and stands to look at her son.

  “Where have you been?” she asks clearly, the first time we’ve heard her voice in hours.

  “I remembered that one of those houses in the back road, they keep chickens,” he says, gesturing at the birds on his shoulder. “There’s a rooster that’s always waking me up in the morning. I thought, Chicken, good, we can have something more to eat. So I slipped out and went to catch some. I was so fast, so quiet, nobody even heard me. I walked right behind some soldiers and they never even turned!” He smiles, delighted with himself. “When I got there, the buggers were roosting, so they didn’t hear me coming. I just grabbed one and held it hard by its neck until it snapped. Then I did another one.” I gulp back a painful lump in my throat, imagining Frankie’s powerful hands wringing the life out of a chicken who never even realized what was coming. I eat chicken all the time—Mama makes a chicken-and-potato curry so delicious that it makes my mouth water just to think of it—and I know that even chickens killed the halal way would probably have preferred not to be killed at all. What gets me is the expression on Frankie’s face, the light in his eyes as he describes killing another living thing so easily. He looks so . . . proud of himself.

  Look how happy that Chinese pig is, the Djinn whispers. If that’s how he treats innocent animals, how do you think he’d treat people he actually hated?

  Shut up, I tell him, shut up, shut up. I say it three times to be safe, and hate myself for doing it.

  “And the radios?” Uncle Chong asks. I can hear the whisper of steel in his words, but Frankie, oblivious, rattles on. “Well, the houses were all empty; their windows were all smashed in and everything. So I went in and saw all this stuff, and I grabbed these two radios. Now Vince and I can have one each!” He grins, victorious, as happy as a child.

  Before we can react, Auntie Bee is striding across the room. The harsh crack her hand makes as it comes into contact with Frankie’s cheek echoes through the room; her palm leaves a red mark on his pale skin. He steps back, his face stunned.

  “You make me ashamed to call you my son,” his mother says quietly. Then she turns and walks slowly back to her room, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.

  When we wake up the next day, there is fried chicken on the table, its skin crispy and golden brown, its flesh juicy and tantalizing. I can’t eat it, can’t look at it without thinking of Frankie’s hands wrapped around its neck. But Uncle Chong and Vince and the neighbors we call to come over, they eat and eat and eat until there is
nothing left but a pile of bones, savoring every mouthful.

  Auntie Bee doesn’t take a single bite.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE DAY WANES ON, AND we all do our best to take our minds off the fighting all around us. Uncle Chong, Frankie, and Vince work on digging the tunnel below the wall in the back garden, behind the flowering shrubs of jasmine. The steady clink, clink, clink of their shovels against the dirt is soothing, and in my head I count along: one, two, three, one two three, one, two, three, just like music. Unbidden, the words of a Beatles song float through my head as they so often do, this time a strange little song about a girl with kaleidoscope eyes. It’s not my favorite; John sings lead on this and not Paul, so to me it’s automatically not as great as it could be. But there’s something about the lyrics, so lavish and so odd—tangerine trees, marmalade skies, rocking horse people, marshmallow pies—that send colors shooting through my head, like fireworks.

  As they immerse themselves in their task, often pausing to consider their progress and discuss their options—“You think we need it bigger?” “No lah Ba, we should keep it this size, so it isn’t easy to find.” “But what if some of the fatter villagers cannot fit? You know how big Uncle Maniam has gotten since he got married!”—I sing softly under my breath and prod through the upturned earth, looking for five fairly smooth stones of roughly the same size. The music, the beat, the act of methodically rooting through the dirt—all of this helps to keep the Djinn mercifully silent, or at least to drown out the worst of his whispers.

  In the afternoon, when the heat forces the men back indoors, we sit on the back porch and I do my best to use the stones to teach Vince the intricate throwing and catching motions that make up the game of Batu Seremban, which my girlfriends and I played incessantly as children; in return, he shuffles through a worn deck of playing cards and tries to teach me the rules of gin rummy. We are both terrible.