The Weight of Our Sky(22)
“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.