Scottish people must have Korean in them. The bagpipe, air forced through small opening, is like gok, the wailing we do. Westerners have no stomach for it. We do it for days, and best part? Guilt and regret forced out of our systems. Tim-Tim’s is most Scottish at memorials.
This chapel in the basement is more cave than cathedral. The place is packed. No surprise in the front row: Mr. Oral-Fixation White with Mrs. Busybody, next to small Japanese woman and frail white guy, next to Rev. Moose. Classes canceled. Everybody’s here. The next row is, listing to his left, Mr. Herbert of the Library, Rower-Man Jeffers, and Rower-Dyke Alta, next to Terence, and the rest of the remaining Second Formers. Some parents came for them. Some didn’t.
Behind the rows of teachers, more students, like Rambo, Donny Bad-Boy Zurkus, and Buttons Daly. Behind the students, no parents. American parents are different from Korean. The character in Korean for hyo is son and earth. Hyo, filial piety, is the earth on the son. The parents are the son’s world and carried on his back. What is the Korean character for parental responsibility? I never learned that one. Should be: earth on parents.
What is Tim-Tim’s responsibility? Earth on us.
Rev. Moose takes the podium, the bagpipe stops wailing, and we’re off.
The Rev reminds me of the teacher in the Charlie Brown comics. Can’t help it. Too many holidays on Kim’s hospital bed, the specials on the tiny screen. “Wah, wah, wah, wah,” the voice goes while Peppermint Patty and Charlie Brown sit at their desks.
The one thing I hear: He invites Kyle’s parents to speak.
Bent-over white guy, Mr. Devoted, turns to Asian wife, shuffles up in his baggy corduroys, black blazer. Rev. Moose touches the guy’s elbow as he takes the steps. Kyle’s father, Mr. Harney, is a little man. The hand he uses to tilt the mic is disproportionate, huge, the fingers bent different ways.
“Hello,” he says too close to the mic. It echoes behind me in this cave. He backs away. Bends forward. “Hello, my name is Derrick Harney. I’m Kyle’s father, and I hail from Detroit.” He backs away again and looks up. His eyes squint a little.
”Kyle’s mother is Niki Harney, and she hails from Nagasaki.” He tilts his head to the left of the mic and nods at Mrs. Harney. She raises one hand barely off her lap, no wave, lifts it, and nods her head.
“We want to tell you about Kyle,” he says. He’s got the hang of the sound now. His face has deep lines in it, around his mouth. Too many lines for a small man, not old man, late fifties.
“Mrs. Harney and I met in war, married in peace. Kyle was our blessing when he was ten months old, and we were never so excited to adopt this child, this tiny boy. His whole life he was way ahead of us. The Mrs. and I tried catching up with him. All he wanted was books. That’s why we were so excited he could come here, thanks to the Whites.”
Mr. Harney’s eyes squint, and his lips curve up, not much of a smile. Right then Japanese Mrs. Harney bends down to reach her purse. Not enough room to bend without falling forward out of the seat, her head almost in Dorothy White’s lap. Reaches into her coat on the back of her seat. Nothing. Dorothy White to the rescue with a tissue.
Mr. Harney’s voice is slowing down. He looks at the mic. “Niki and I never could catch up. Seems he’s gone ahead of us, again. We’ll miss him so much. Thank you, what you did for him.” He bows his head quick in polite informal Japanese style, and turns to the steps from the podium. The Rev isn’t fast enough to help him back to his seat.
Derrick Harney lowers himself down. To help him down, Mrs. Harney raises her hand to his shoulder. Spots are all over the back of her hand. He takes her hand as soon as he settles into the seat.
Next it’s Head-Honcho White.
“Thank you, Mr. Harney, you and Mrs. Harney bless us with your presence.”
Ever the grateful.
“As you all know, Kyle came to us as a Second Former only a few weeks ago.”
Eleven, to be exact.
“And from the moment he arrived, he made his mark.”
Euphemism: He was odd.
“He excelled in all his classes.”
Understatement: He blew them away.
“For instance, Ms. Alta made special note that Kyle’s project on South Africa was the most creative and thorough presentation in the class.”
Which he destroyed with a mallet.
“Mr. Song noted that Kyle was always helpful in the dorm . . .”
Misdirection: He stuck by me because he was afraid to be anywhere else.
“. . . and Herbert Hofmeister mentioned he’d never seen a student so enamored with the reference section of the library.”
Misplaced kindness: Kyle listened to the drunk.
“While Kyle was with us a short time, we’ll miss him.”
“As if,” Carla would say. What I’d really like to do, besides yell and throw things, is to interrupt this farce to give a demonstration.
I’d say, “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to show you exactly what this headmaster has done for Kyle. Mr. White, would you agree that the staff at St. Timothy’s is in loco parentis to our students?”
He would nod, of course.
“And as the local parent, what did you do for Kyle?”
Like a dog, he’d raise his ears and tilt his head.
“Nothing, that’s true,” I’d say. “Now, please be seated in this chair before me.”
And Wyatt White would look at me with a half-grin because he’s polite, after all. And he’d do what he was told because everyone was watching, and appearances are good for admissions. He’d take a seat in front of the podium, his wool trousers, his Tim-Tim’s blazer flapping open.
“Thank you, Mr. White. Don’t worry. This won’t hurt a bit.” The audience would giggle.
Then, I’d take six really thick books, like dictionaries, science textbooks, the school dress code, and pile them on his head. Then, as Mr. Physics-Man, I’d have to stand on a chair behind him, white lab coat, my glasses on, and steady the stack for him. With one hand to steady the stack, my other hand would put a board on top. From my lab coat I’d pull out a nail. One hand would steady it perpendicular to the board, ready to be nailed, and the other hand would get out a hammer from a pocket in my lab coat.
“Now then,” I’d say, “tell me what you feel.”
At this point, Mr. Polite might squirm. “Very funny, Mr. Song, I’m sure your demonstration has merit,” he’d say, “but I think we’ve had enough.”
I’d press the stack down harder so he couldn’t move. “Oh no, Mr. White, we’ve had far too much. Sit still.”
That’s when the hammer would hit the nail. Over and over the thunk echoing in the chapel. The nail inching down into the wood, through the wood, into the first book.
“Feel anything?”
“Why, no,” he’d say. And he’d try to turn and look at me, but he wouldn’t be able to.
“Of course not, Mr. Idiot,” I’d say. Politeness is not a part of the demonstration. “The force of the hammer is resisted by the books. The books provide the inertia. This is your brain at the bottom of the stack. This is your brain on denial. You felt nothing. Still don’t. You don’t miss Kyle. We’ve had far too much inertia.” And I’d whack the hammer again for dramatic effect.
“Don’t pretend you feel anything,” I’d say.
I don’t know what would happen after that. But even thinking of it helps me get through whatever else Mr. Inertia is saying. He’s left the podium. The bagpipe’s back. Buttons and Rambo are crying. Carla is nowhere in sight.
Mrs. Harney helps Mr. Harney get up from his chair, but then, Mr. Harney puts her hand on his forearm. Mr. Inertia and the Rev dwarf the little couple from behind. When they turn to come down the center aisle, that’s when I see her. Niki Harney has pink, puckered skin across her face, almost the yin-yang symbol, one eye sagging. The telltale keloid scarring. Mrs. Nagasaki, probably she was Kyle’s age when Bockscar dropped the Fat Man.
Sir Kyle, young prince of his mother’s protection.
Mr. Anti-Nuke, with nuclear annihilation on his notebook.
Not to see the TV show The Day After. Not tonight. Not ever.
Bent-over Mr. Harney and radiation-poisoned Mrs. Harney shuffle down the aisle. I meet them with the wrapped package of a hundred cranes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harney, my name is Jack Song. It is an honor to meet you,” I say.
Mr. Harney straightens up. His eyes are blue dots in deep wrinkles. He takes his hand from behind his wife and extends it to me. His hand is callused and fits my hand like a pipe wrench.
“Mr. Song,” he says, “we’ve heard a lot about you.”
I pull in my elbows, make my feet parallel, and bow low from the waist to Mrs. Harney. The eye that doesn’t sag is bright. She smiles and bows back slightly, both scarred hands laid flat on her skirt.
“Please accept these from our students who folded them.” I hold out the box, and Mrs. Harney’s eyelashes descend over her eyes, the eyes glowing white with cataracts. She knows what the box contains.
Mrs. Harney says, “Arigato Gozaimasu.”
“You’re welcome” in Korean sounds like “Chairman Mao.” I bow again, the arms-to-the-side, head-down-to-the-knees traditional bow, long enough to feel the pull of hamstrings, the need for a haircut.
From students’ hands to my hands to their hands to fire, what we couldn’t give Kyle in this lifetime will fly into the next. Earth on us turns fire, then flight.