The Weight of Our Sky(44)
Then it hits me.
“Check the windows,” Uncle Chong had commanded on that first night. “Make sure they’re secure.” And they’ve stayed tightly shut and locked ever since—I should know, I checked them often enough in those fevered nights, trying to make sure we all stayed safe. Yet there it is, the curtain swaying in the breeze.
Except for some jagged pieces along the edges, the glass from the window is gone.
I can feel my pulse quickening. Vince is ahead of me, his hand outstretched to open the door. I want to say something, to warn him, but the Djinn grabs hold of my tongue and stops me from speaking. All I can do is watch the frown on Vince’s face as the door swings open at his touch, unlocked; the confusion quickly giving way to shock and pain as he takes in the scene before him; the flash of anger as he quickly strides inside.
I take a deep breath to steel myself, then head in after him.
Inside, I have to pick a path through the debris on the floor: overturned furniture, bits of broken glass from the windows, the remnants of Auntie Bee’s delicate blue patterned plates and bowls. Vince is standing in the middle of it all, silent, unmoving but for his hands, which are balled into fists and shaking.
“It happened a couple of hours ago,” a voice says, and we both turn to see Frankie leaning against the door frame, silhouetted in the dying rays of the evening sun. “A mob came. Started burning and looting the houses. Malay, of course,” he says, nodding in my direction. “All while the guards stood back and let them. Must take care of your own, right?”
“What happened to Ma and Baba?” Vince’s voice is strangled.
“Ba and I tried to fight them off, but some cibai Malay coward hit him on the head from behind, and when I went to help him they ran off,” Frankie says. “He’s okay. Bruised. Ma is really scared. I took them to Chin Woo Stadium; that’s where they’re letting people like us take shelter. You know, people the Malays have managed to take everything from.”
“Frankie . . .” The two brothers look at each other, and I wonder if they’re about to get into another fight. “Thanks for being here,” Vincent says, and though his voice is still strained I can hear the thread of sincerity in it. “Thanks for taking care of them. While I was out there . . .”
Frankie shrugs. “No point talking about it now,” he says. “I’m just here to get some clothes and stuff for them. Don’t hang around here; it’s dangerous.” He walks past us toward the master bedroom. Soon, we hear muffled thuds and bangs as he rummages through the wardrobe and vanity.
I look over at Vince, his eyes closed, his hands clenched into tight fists by his side. “I’m sorry, Vincent,” I say, because what else is there to say? But he doesn’t answer, and eventually I slip quietly away and leave him to his thoughts.
? ? ?
Sitting outside is probably the worst thing to do at a time like this, but I don’t know where else to go, so I settle myself on an upturned ceramic plant pot just outside to wait. The sky is ablaze with streaks of orange, pink, purple, and the breeze carries the merest whiff of flowers—jasmine. For once, the Djinn is silent. It’s so peaceful, so beautiful, that I could almost forget everything that has led us to this point.
A movement in the corner of my eye jolts me out of my reverie. It’s Frankie, bearing a small, stuffed suitcase in each hand.
“I’m sorry about your parents, Frankie,” I tell him. It’s my third apology in thirty minutes, but I don’t know what else I can say. “I’m glad they weren’t badly hurt.”
He regards me, his head tilted to one side. I search his expression, but can’t tell what he’s thinking. When he speaks, he speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “Even after my father was hit, even when we were trying to get him to a doctor, you know what he was saying? ‘Aiya, don’t blame them lah, they don’t know any better, poor things.’ He was still trying to justify their actions, still trying to be understanding and forgiving.”
I can feel tears welling in my eyes. Frankie goes on, his eyes never leaving my face.
“My parents were never anything but nice and good to anyone—Chinese, Malay, Indian, whoever. But the Malays didn’t care. They looked at them and saw outsiders, not worthy of their time or mercy. What’s the use of being good if it just gets you trampled on?”
I can feel my body burn hot with shame, frustration, anger. I can’t make myself meet his gaze. Are we all as bad as he says? Yes, says that voice in my ear. Yes, you are. What makes you think you can protect anyone? You failed Saf, you failed Mama, and now you’ve failed Auntie Bee and Uncle Chong, too.
After a pause, he turns toward the car. “Tell Vincent I’m going back to Chin Woo,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. Before long, I hear the sound of the Standard puttering down the road.
I sit outside until the last of the evening light deepens into night. I hear mosquitoes buzz lazily past my ears, but I don’t even flinch. I’m too busy counting jasmine blossoms through eyes blurry with tears.
Eventually, Vince comes outside. I look up at him from my spot on the ground. “Come on,” he says, brushing past me. “Let’s go.” He looks more tired than I’ve ever seen him.
“I . . . in a minute,” I say, my fingers moving feverishly in my pockets. 249, 252, 255 . . . Wait, did I count that right? Is it 255 or 256? 257? I freeze, paralyzed by my own doubt. You’ve messed it up now, the Djinn growls. Do it again. You have to do it again, or it won’t be right, and your mother dies, and Vince dies, and his parents die. Everyone dies, because of you.