The Weight of Our Sky(17)
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Finally, Auntie Bee makes us sit down around the marble-topped dining table laden with rice and dishes—chicken stewed in an aromatic brown sauce, deep green leaves of kailan sautéed with chili and garlic, steam rising gently from the fragrant white rice in the bowl. “Eat, eat,” she tells us. “Everything is better with a full stomach. Don’t worry,” she whispers to me, passing me a spoon in place of the chopsticks I have no idea how to use. “Everything you can eat, no pork in anything. Got chicken lah, but this is darurat—emergency—surely God will forgive you.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” I whisper back. Obediently, Vincent and I grab our bowls and begin to fill them; I stay clear of the chicken, as if God cares anymore what I do, and load up on vegetables. It seems strange to enjoy food at a time like this, but each bite of the crisp greens, the crunchy garlic, the heat of the red chilis, is such pure pleasure that I could cry.
As we eat, I keep my head bent and my eyes on my food; I can feel Frankie’s eyes boring into my forehead from across the table. An explosion, I realize, is inevitable.
And so it is. “This is ridiculous, Ma,” Frankie spits out, flinging his chopsticks down and crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “Why invite this Malay girl into our home? Why must we share our food with her when her kind don’t even want to share a country with us?”
“Frankie.” Auntie Bee clicks her tongue, her brow furrowed with irritation. “Show some respect.”
“Respect? Respect?!” He snorts. “The killing started because her kind, those Malay cibais, started it.” I want to ask what “cibai” means, but from the way he spits it out, I’m guessing it’s nothing good. The Djinn thumps on my heart like a drum, grinning widely. “They think they can just whack us however they like and we’ll roll over and take it, like good dogs.” Frankie looks directly at me then, and I turn away, breathless with the force of his rage. I feel like I’ve been slapped. In my head, Frankie leads a band of armed thugs into Mama’s hospital, shoots everyone in sight, then burns the entire building to the ground. Hidden beneath the table, my hands tap out my usual tattoo on my knees, but they’re shaking so hard I keep losing track and having to begin again, over and over and over.
“Frankie.” Auntie Bee’s voice is soft, but there is a note of warning that hints at the steel lurking below.
If Frankie hears that note, he chooses to ignore it entirely. “But it’s true, Ma. Our family has been here for generations! You always talk about our ancestors coming from China, leaving their homes to break their backs in the mines. And for what?” Frankie is practically spitting, so great is his anger. “The British got all the money for our work, and now the Malays want to do the same. The country was built on the labor of our people, and this is how they thank us for it? If they come poke at bees’ nests, then too bad if they get stung.”
“You sound like a child,” Vincent says coldly. “They started it! They did it first!” he singsongs, sticking out his tongue in mock-playground fashion. I snort with laughter, then cough to hide it as Frankie shoots me a hostile look.
“You sound like a Malay suck-up, Vincent,” he says coldly. “Who’s a good little doggy, then?”
“Vincent. Frankie. Stop it,” Auntie Bee snaps, her voice ringing with authority. The brothers subside, glowering at each other over the table, while I stare at my bowl of barely touched food, tapping my fingers lightly along the sides so nobody notices. “We have a guest in our house, and she will share our food and drink because I have invited her to do so. Surely I have taught you better than this.”
“Sorry, Ma,” Vincent says, shamefaced, while Frankie looks away, mumbling a halfhearted apology under his breath.
There is a sound then from the doorway. “Baba is home,” Auntie Bee half sighs, her relief obvious, and it’s only when I see her body relax that I realize just how tightly wound she’s been waiting for his arrival.
She hurries to the door to greet him, ushering him to the table. “Come, Baba, eat, eat, you must be starving. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“Yes, yes, Bee, I’m fine,” he says impatiently, waving her fluttering platitudes away like so many irritating flies. Uncle is a tall, thin man, his silver-gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses lending him a dignified air. He sits at the head of the table, nods to his two sons, and then finally takes in my presence.
“Hello,” he says, looking at me over the rim of his spectacles. “Who is this?” The words, flung with so much hostility at me only an hour before, are spoken gently, curiously, this time around, and I find myself warming immediately to this kind-eyed man.
Auntie Bee reaches out to pat my hand. “This is Melati,” she says. “She was at the Rex too. There was some . . . some trouble there. I had to bring her home with me.”
He nods, as if it’s entirely normal to bring home a random Malay child. “Of course, of course,” he murmurs. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. You can call me Uncle Chong.”
“Thank you for letting me stay, Uncle Chong,” I say shyly.
“No, no,” he demurs, stretching out his arms expansively. “Our home is your home.” Frankie snorts imperceptibly into his rice bowl, and I catch Vincent throwing him a murderous look.
Auntie Bee fills his plate, and Uncle Chong talks. “I was having a drink with Osman after closing the shop,” he tells us between bites. “We were near Osman’s house, up by Jalan Gurney. Suddenly, we heard a huge roaring, a huge commotion, coming from Princess Road. Then we saw a young Malay fellow run past. Aiyo, the fear all over his face! I could feel it, even from where I was sitting. Then Ahmad from across the street yelled at us. ‘They are rioting on Princess Road!’ he said, ‘Go home!’ Osman and I said our good-byes—he bolted back to his house and I ran for the car and drove like a maniac. Didn’t stop until I reached our gates.”