A Boy Chooses To Go To the Moon

A little boy, just turned five, dropped several of his mother's silver plated spoons from the third floor window of a six-story walk up on 112th and Broadway in New York City. He watched them clatter to the asphalt in the narrow alley between two buildings and emitted an impressed, breathy "wow" each time a spoon hit the ground. After he dropped the last spoon, he went to the kitchen to find more stuff to send into orbit, but was soon stopped by his mother. She gave him a choice: did he want to accompany her to the grocery store or be dropped off at kindergarten first? He chose to go to the grocery with her. It was Friday and Mr. Maradona, the grocer, had told him he was getting in a new supply of tart lemon candy that day.

He watched his mother put on a pea green overcoat that went past her knees, nearly covering her diaphanous white sari and wondered fleetingly why she refused to wear pants when it was so cold outside. That very morning his father had admonished her for not dressing appropriately against the biting November wind. He said the same thing every morning before he went off to class at nearby Columbia--that she should learn to assimilate so she could better relate to American women. He wanted her to emulate them (within reason, of course) but she resisted heartily and always wore a sari, no matter what the temperature was outside.

The young mother took her son's hand and was about to walk out the door when he suddenly remembered he had left the window in his room open. He backed away from her and ran to shut it before she figured out what he had done, but it was too late. She followed him into the room and peered over the windowsill.

"Oh, not again," she said. "Now we have to go all the way to the back and pick them up.” She turned to face him. “ I am not going to tell your father," she said, frowning at her son's look of relief, "because I cannot share with him such painful news. Once again, you have broken a promise to me."

She knew that raising her voice to him would be useless so she decided instead to blackmail him emotionally.

"When you break a promise to your mother, you also break her heart." She closed the window with a sigh and walked out of the room. Her son followed with his head down, feeling contrite. At least she hadn't started crying like the last time. Girls, big ones and small ones, always did confusing things like this. In spite of what his mother had said, he knew that his father would not have been as cross with him. What his mother did not know was that one hot summer afternoon, when all the mingling odors of the city rose up and worried his mother, his father had caught him throwing a dollar bill out the window. The boy had filched the dollar when his father was napping and threw it out the window because he wanted to watch it float to the ground. His father had walked into the room just as the boy tossed the bill out the window. He turned around to find his father peering over the boy’s head at the dancing-floating bill, as mesmerized as he was. Neither said a word until it had gently touched down. The boy turned to his father who tried his best to look stern but could only manage a puzzled smile.

“Why did you do that?” he asked his son.

“To see it float,” the boy replied simply, in his squeaky voice.

Still smiling and still puzzled, his father shook his head.

“Well, you are going to have to go downstairs and fetch it before your mother gets home,” he said.

He looked out over the windowsill again, down to where the bill had found its final resting-place.

“Never mind,” he said. “It has been saved.”

He pointed out the window. An elderly woman, dressed in a flowery blue housecoat that matched the color of her hair had scooped it up and folded it into the front of her dress before walking uncertainly away.

His father had not scolded him that day. The boy assumed that his father had left it up to his mother, who did most of the scolding. He waited all evening long for his punishment but it didn’t come, so he went to bed with a full stomach and an untroubled conscience.

This time, his father was not here to buffer him from his mother’s anger--and the boy knew she was angry. Why didn't she just yell at him and get it over with? Why did she have to give him that sad look, almost the same one she got when his nannu died? The sad look made him feel terrible and he promised himself he wouldn't do it again. He decided to reassure her of this.

"I will never, ever do it again," he said, smiling up at her as she put on his mittens. When she didn't respond he felt he should explain why he had done it in the first place. His mother was reasonable when you explained things to her. For the most part.

"President Kennedy said we should support the space program and make things fly."

When she didn’t respond, he thought she didn’t believe him. He knew his mother hated to watch television and that was where he got most of his information.

“He did. Honest. I heard him say it on TV.”

Even as he said this, though he said it with a great deal of conviction, he realized it was a mistake. His mother stopped adjusting his woolen cap and looked at him. They stared at each other for a moment and then she got a very displeased look on her face, which sent his heart careening to the floor. She arched one eyebrow, pursed her lips and folded her arms. This was a look the little boy recognized and did not relish seeing.

"You are a very smarty little American aren't you?" she asked him.

He was not sure if this was a loaded question but he ventured a hesitant, "yes?"

Smack! Right across his bum. Luckily, it was padded by three layers of clothing, but his pride was stung just the same. She dragged him out, muttering in Bengali about how she was not going to tolerate this cheekiness any longer and that she was going to take him back to Dhaka, where presumably children were neither cheeky nor fascinated with outer space.

"Tell your precious President Kennedy to replace my silverware since you are throwing all my belongings out the window for him. He eats with golden spoons everyday in his big, white house. Tell him to send me some of his," she said in English.

The little boy looked around, embarrassed. He hoped none of the neighbors could hear his mother's traitorous talk. He felt many of them were suspicious of him and his parents enough as it was, especially since his mother refused to wear anything except a sari and stunk up the narrow hallway with the smell of her cooking. He had seen some of the neighbors wrinkle their noses whenever they walked past the front door. Mrs. Finnerty, from across the hall, rolled up a hand towel and wedged it into the crack beneath her front door to keep the smells from wafting into her apartment. He sometimes played with his matchbox cars up and down the hallway and had seen the towel poking through. He asked his mother about it and she explained that Mrs. Finnerty was an old woman and troubled by anything unfamiliar.

His mother did not share the same opinion of the President and his wife that the rest of the world and his father seemed to. His father held the First Lady in very high regard, praising her as a symbol of “modern womanhood”, whatever that meant. He could see his mother did not like it when his father praised Jackie, as everyone called her. He had heard her complaining to one of the women in the building, another foreigner-from Japan- that Jackie was merely ornamental. The little boy did not know what that meant, but he knew whatever it was, it wasn’t a nice thing to say. He winced every time his mother said anything negative against the President. He knew how much everyone loved him.

The little boy, for his part, liked the President. To his five- year-old mind, the leader was heroic and had a kind face. Besides, he wanted to go to the moon too. The boy had heard him say so many times. Jackie reminded him of his mother (he would never tell her this) who was also slim and sloe-eyed--especially when he saw the First Lady cuddling her own little boy on TV. She hugged him tightly to her chest just like his mother did to him, though at this moment, it looked as if he would never be hugged again.

"Do you think John junior throws Jackie's hats out the window? Well? Answer me! The Space Program. Ha!" she said, without waiting for an answer. She stopped what she was doing for a moment to look at him thoughtfully. She bent down at the waist so she was nose to nose with him. The boy suddenly felt shy as he often did whenever his mother would stare directly at him. He dropped his eyes to the ground and began fiddling with the front of his coat.

“It’s about vanity, you know,” she said to him. “Going to the moon. Do you know what vanity is? Your friend, Kennedy, doesn’t like to lose. He would even race Shaitan if he thought he could win.”

The boy kicked at the floor sheepishly and wished his mother would not mention the President and the devil in the same breath. In fact, he wished she would just keep entirely quiet because their front door was open and he had seen Mrs. Finnerty, who was passing by, glance in at them before going into her apartment.

He found out his mother was never going to be an American the day his fourth floor neighbor, a boy of seventeen, went away one morning and didn’t come back. He had watched his mother console the young man's mother, who cried so much, her face became all mottled and swollen. His mother had shed tears with her. She held the boy tightly when they got home.

"Just see if that scoundrel Kennedy ever tried to take you away from me, " she said. "Why doesn't he go to Saigon himself?" He had never seen her look so bitter. He didn’t know what Saigon was and what “police action” meant but he knew then that she would always go against the grain, just as he would always try to blend in.

His mother was still on a rampage. She did not stop even when they got outside. She kept talking, loudly in her accented English, as she dragged him into the alleyway and began retrieving the spoons and various other items that had met their fate there.

"Is this the hairbrush I bought at Marks and Spencer?" she asked. Having had such bad luck when he had answered a question before, the boy decided to remain mum. That granted him a small reprieve while she continued to look for more spoons.

When she found the last item, she placed it in her handbag and looked at him.

"I hope you have learned your lesson today," she said. He nodded silently, unsure of what it was he was supposed to have learned and hoped the worst was over.

It was sunny, but cold and the wind cut through his three layers of clothing. He squirmed around in discomfort until his mother looked at him sharply and told him to be still. She seemed impervious to the crippling wind and cold and marched into the grocery deliberately, the bottom of her white French chiffon sari flapping around her small black boots.

"Hallo, Mr. Maradona," she said cheerfully and yanked her son forward to greet the grocer, which he did, sullenly. Mr. Maradona smiled at the little boy with big ears and curious eyes, who he could tell had recently gotten himself into a world of trouble, judging from the dejected way he was shuffling around behind his mother. Mr. Maradona caught the boy's mother's eyes and pointed towards a jar of lemon drops sitting on his counter with a questioning shrug. The mother hesitated and then tilted her head to the side in consent.

"Ay, you! Come here!" Mr. Maradona said gruffly. The little boy gave a deep sigh, causing both his mother and the grocer to smile, and went up to the counter.

"So, you made your mommy angry, eh?"

"I guess so," the little boy said quietly.

"Maybe one of these will make you feel better," the man said and handed the boy a handful of lemon drops.

The boy delightedly went to accept the offering but then hesitated and nodded towards his mother.

"She won't let me!" He crossed his arms and frowned.

Mr. Maradona leaned in conspiratorially and said, "Well, when you make a pretty girl mad you have to apologize and offer her a lemon drop."

"I don't think that's going to work," the boy said, looking unconvinced. "She's really, really mad."

"Lemon drops are the perfect cure for being really, really mad," Mr. Maradona replied authoritatively and held out a small yellow candy shaped like a crescent moon.

"So," he said when the boy took the drop, "What did you do?"

"Oh, I threw some stuff out the window, but I was going to get it back. I was pretending to be in outer space, where everything floats around,“ he said, flapping his arms to demonstrate.

"Well, then maybe you should give her two," the man said and handed him another piece.

The boy paused but then took the second drop. He approached his mother cautiously and tugged at her coat. He held out his hand, palm up. She sighed and shook her head, but took both drops into her mouth at the same time, and, to his utter joy, gently pinched his cheek, indicating that he was somewhat forgiven.

The little boy skipped happily back to the counter to tell Mr. Maradona that his idea had been a success. He removed his mittens and popped three drops into his mouth, sucking on the tart candy as the grocer listened to a small radio set behind the counter.

"Did you know the President is in Dallas, Texas?” the boy, feeling chatty, told Mr. Maradona. “I‘ve been to Texas," he added proudly. "I went with my mommy and dad to a conference there."

"I don't think those cowboys out there like the President," Mr. Maradona said, mostly to himself.

The little boy stopped sucking for a moment and became pensive.

"Is it bad if someone doesn't like the President?" he asked in a soft voice. He looked worriedly towards his mother who was absorbed by the fresh produce display.

"No," Mr. Maradona said. "A lot of people don't. It's their choice. That's why we are in America. Why? You don't like him?"

"No, no," the boy protested, aghast. "I like him."

Mr. Maradona leaned his elbows on the counter in front of him.

"What's your President's name?" he asked.

For a moment he was puzzled by the question, but then saluted smartly, clipping his heels together and announced, "My President is President John F. Kennedy." Mr. Maradona smiled.

"So he is."

Outside, the boy skipped so far ahead of his mother, she had to call him back and tell him to walk calmly by her side. He complied but was eager to get to kindergarten and share the bag of candy the kindly grocer had given him. A combination of sugar and his mother's forgiveness had sent a thunderbolt of energy whipping through his small body and he could hardly keep still. Only a moment before the wind had seemed much colder, his mother much meaner, now he was filled with warmth. She suddenly looked very kind to him, with her head covered by the white palloo of her sari, like the pictures of angels he had seen in his fourth floor neighbor's Bible and he hardly felt the wind. He smiled up at her winningly; she pursed her lips and shook her head in response, but that did not dampen his spirit. He knew by the time they had climbed the steps to the red brick building where he attended kindergarten she would love him again.

They were almost there. Although it was cold, the street was relatively busy, people bustling back and forth, their heads bent down bravely against the chill. The sound of the wind was the loudest and it virtually drowned out the sound of people's voices and late morning traffic. The boy and his mother stopped on the corner of 112th street, and Broadway, next to Tom's Restaurant, and waited for the light to indicate it was safe for them to walk. A maroon Impala with a white top drove up and suddenly stopped right on the cross- walk. Both the boy and his mother saw that the light had turned green. The Impala continued to stall at the light, but it did not appear to be broken down. The driver of the car held her head in her hands, sobbing.

"Arre," his mother said softly in Bengali, "What is this?"

The boy looked around him. The man at the corner newsstand stood, as if in meditation or disbelief, staring out into the street and holding a small transistor radio to his ear. He suddenly marched behind his newsstand and began pulling the shutters down around it.

There was a burst of activity as the street suddenly emptied of people. Everyone ran indoors. The boy, his mother and the woman still sobbing in the maroon Impala were the only ones left on the street corner. The boy looked up into the sky, half expecting it to explode and send fiery rocks hurtling down on top of him and his mother.

The light had turned red again. The boy's mother slowly approached the Impala and knocked on the driver's window.

His mother ran as fast as she ever had back to their building, carrying the little boy at the end because he was too slow. She dumped him and the grocery bags in the doorway and ran first to turn on the TV and then to the telephone. For several minutes she tried frantically to reach the boy's father, crying in frustration as yet another attempt proved fruitless. All the while her eyes slid back and forth from the TV screen to the telephone.

"Turn up the volume," she said to the boy at one point. He listened to the man talking on the television set. Somebody had been hurt. He knew it was bad because the man telling him the story began to cry. The little boy scooted forward and touched the man's image with the tips of his fingers. He looked towards his mother who had balanced the telephone receiver on her shoulder and was struggling to get free of her overcoat.

"Yes, oh my God," she said into the receiver. Almost immediately, she began to cry. "I know, it's crazy," she said, "but all I thought was what if you had died."

The man on the TV screen had composed himself somewhat and was reading from a paper. His hands still shook. The boy turned the dial to another channel and then another. It was all the same. People crying, their bodies and hands shaking. By then, he knew, of course, what had happened; but he could not concentrate on the images on the screen. He was confused by his mother. She had grabbed him to her and kept saying, "Those poor children, that poor woman.."

Only that morning she had been berating this same Jackie for being “exquisite but useless”. He knew that in his mother's estimation, there was nothing worse than being thought of as useless.

When she finally let go of him, he ran to his room and lifted the mattress off his narrow bed. Underneath lay several shiny forks, an ornamental hair comb, and a plastic bag full of copper pennies that he had been ferreting away for several weeks at a time. He had rubbed each and every penny until they glinted like cut gemstones. Out of all the little things he had been stealing over the years, these pennies were his most prized possession, not because of their monetary value (he had no intention of buying anything with them) but because they shone so brightly. He pulled the bag out now and went to his window, which he opened. He climbed out on to the fire escape and looked up towards the roof. Slowly, he climbed the narrow fire escape steps until he had reached the top.

He peered over the edge to make sure that no one had chosen that moment to walk in to the alleyway. His mother had warned him that one of his hurtling objects, even something as small as a penny, could injure somebody. As he looked over the edge, he thought six flights seemed a long way to fall. Although it was cold, he felt warm. He took out a handful of pennies and tossed them high in the air, far over the edge of the roof. They caught the light of the midday sun and sparkled like dozens of tiny fires just as he had hoped they would and then fell silently to their deaths in the alley below. He took out another handful, and another until the bag was empty. Each time it was the same; they sparkled brightly, thrilling his very soul, and died almost immediately. He listened for the sound of the last handful to hit the ground but did not hear anything.

He began the descent back into his room hesitantly. Going up had seemed a lot easier. Just before he reached the bottom, he lost his footing and slid down the remaining steps on his belly. His chin hit the last step, causing him to bite down on his lower lip.

For a moment, the boy was stunned. The pain had been sharp and quick, unlike anything he had felt before. He shook his head but that only made it hurt more. His mouth filled with a salty liquid that ran down his chin. He pulled himself up by holding on to the wrought iron bars of the fire escape. Shakily, he climbed through the window into his room. His jaw and temples had begun to ache. He wanted to cry but found that his face was too cold. Instead, he whimpered through his chilled lips and hoped his mother would come running to his aid.

For several minutes, he waited, until he realized that she probably could not hear him. He dropped his blood-smeared mittens onto the floor and unzipped his jacket. He had changed his mind about his mother. He did not want her to see him. He knew she would be angry. He wished his father were home. His father never seemed to get upset or too serious. For the first time in his life, he thought about what would happen if his father were hurt and bleeding, but he did not dwell upon it for too long. He could not imagine anything bringing his father down.

He removed his jacket with numb fingers and tiptoed to the living room. He heard a sound he wished never to hear because it always caused a lump to rise in his throat. His mother sat in a heap in front of the television set, sobbing. The palloo of her white chiffon sari had fallen from her left shoulder and lay in a fan around her feet. She looked as if she were sitting on a pile of snow. Though he was a very small boy, he realized she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, even more beautiful than his precious copper pennies. He touched her shoulder and she turned at once to gather him into her arms. She told him that his father was on his way from school.

“We are the lucky ones,” she said. “That poor little boy.”

At first, the boy was confused. He thought his mother was talking about him. But then, a snapshot of the President with his children came on the TV screen and he understood she was talking about the President’s son. In the picture, all three faces were tanned and open. All three clung to each other like they would never let go--especially the boy.

He unhooked his skinny arms, which had been hanging loosely around his mother’s neck and looked at her. Kohl ran in thin rivulets down her cheeks. He touched his mother’s face gently. She took his hand and kissed the small palm. The boy was mesmerized by how she looked, even at that moment when she was so very sad. He decided he wanted to remember her like this. He gazed for a second or two longer at her face and then shut his eyes tightly. He did peek once, through one eye, because oddly, he forgot for a moment the color of her sari. After that, he did not open his eyes until he was satisfied that she was in his head, there to stay.

When he finally did open them, he saw she was staring at him in alarm. She wet the edge of her sari on the tip of her tongue and wiped some of the blood off the boy’s lower lip, staining the garment permanently.

“Later, you will tell me what happened,” she said. “Because I know you did something you should not have and now my sari is ruined.” She looked down at it and burst into tears. He patted her awkwardly on the head, the way his father did to him whenever he was upset or afraid, but she kept crying. He wished his father would get home and calm his mother down, like he used to when they first moved to New York and she would be so sad. His father would know exactly what to do. He would say, half-laughing, “Arre, what’s the hullabaloo about?” and then hug her while she tried to squirm out of his arms. She never let the boy’s father hold her too closely in front of him. Eventually, she would start laughing because his father wouldn’t stop trying until she did.

The boy tried once again to cheer her up. He felt responsible for her sadness.

“Arre, mommy, what’s all this hubbaballoo about?” he asked her, cocking his head to one side and lifting her chin with his fingers.

He didn’t have to work as hard as his father did. She began to laugh even as the tears continued to slide down her cheeks. She took him in her arms again.

“Where is your father?” she whispered into his ear.

Puzzled, the boy went to tell her that he was still at the school but was interrupted by the telephone’s ring. Still sniffling, his mother picked up the receiver. She spoke briefly into it, then replaced the receiver gently back in its cradle and gave her son a wan smile.

“Mrs. Hakuro is coming over now. Come, help me make some tea.” She held out a slender hand and wiggled her fingers at him, like she used to do when he was little. The boy could not resist his mother’s hand, even though he did not enjoy helping her make tea. He took it and allowed her to lead him into their kitchen, where he watched her take the teapot down from the cabinet and mechanically fill it with water before placing it on the burner. She did not ignite the burner immediately but stood staring at it with the box of Diamond matches in her hand. The boy waited a moment or two before taking the matches from her. She did not resist and continued to stare into space. He turned the gas burner on and struck a match against the box. He held it slightly away from the burner as he had seen his mother do. When it ignited, he adjusted the flame until he was satisfied and looked up at his mother expectantly. He knew that what he had done was “illegal”, as his father would say, and that he could be punished for it. He had done it without thinking. To his surprise (and relief) his mother did not acknowledge his boldness but asked him to arrange tea biscuits on a plate.

“I wish we had something more to give Mrs. Hakuro,” she said quietly. “She always gives us nice things to eat.”

The boy nodded, though he did not agree with her. Mrs. Hakuro was nice enough but he had no taste for the green biscuits she served them because they smelled fishy. Mrs. Hakuro never offered him normal stuff like cake or pop. It was always stuff that he would end up hiding in his pockets or throwing out the window when no one was looking. He knew for a fact that Mrs. Finnerty from across the hall drank soda pop because he had seen the empties outside her door. She had never asked him if he would like any, which he most certainly would have. He wished that his mother and Mrs. Finnerty were friends so that she would make cookies with green sprinkles on top for him on St. Patrick’s Day, which he was convinced she did for the other kids in the building.

When the doorbell rang, his mother asked him to answer it. Mrs. Hakuro had a little girl close to his age but she didn’t even know who John Glenn was and hardly said a word anyway. The boy hoped that she hadn’t come along because his mother always made him play with her. But when he opened the door it wasn’t Mrs. Hakuro.

Mrs. Finnerty stood at their door shivering. There was no heat in the hallway and the elderly lady was wearing a dress with only a faded lavender sweater draped around her broad shoulders.

“Where’s your mommy?” she asked him. She didn’t greet him but walked straight past him into the small foyer where she was met by his mother.

After an uncertain pause, the older woman asked his mother if she could watch the latest developments on their television set.

“Mine seems to have gone out,” she said. “Something about the vertical hold but these repair men always try to blow wind up my arse.”

His mother glanced at the little boy, who was staring up at Mrs. Finnerty in awe. She said, yes, of course Mrs. Finnerty could use their TV and the older woman’s stoic face seemed to loosen for the first time since the little boy and his parents had moved into the building. She even managed a real smile. The little boy thought she resembled his own grandmother back in Dhaka, though Mrs. Finnerty was a good five inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier. He smiled back at her, taking care to show all his teeth because his mother had said she never trusted a man who didn’t show his teeth when he smiled.

His mother offered the older woman tea but she declined, saying it was she who should provide the refreshment.

“I think we are going to be settled in here for some time. If that’s all right, that is.”

“Of course Mrs. Finnerty,” his father said behind him. He had just walked in.

“You are always welcome.”

Mrs. Finnerty fiddled with her shawl and smiled guiltily. His father placed his battered leather brief case stuffed with papers on the floor and rolled up his sleeves.

“Tragedy brings people together,” he said quietly. “Please come in and sit.”

Scooping his son into his arms, he led them all into their small living room.

“Oh I’m sure he’s going to be fine,” Mrs Finnerty said with more confidence than she felt. “You know he was from my county back in Ireland. Well, his people were.”

“When did you come to America?” the boy’s mother asked, noticing for the first time that Mrs Finnerty had an accent. It was slight and only came out when she was upset about something.

“Oh a ways back,” Mrs Finnerty said. “There now, what a nice television set,” she smiled as his mother turned up the sound. But the older woman’s smile died as she heard the announcer’s words.

“Oh Jesus. This is a dark day, a dark day,” she said over and over as she dabbed at her eyes and rocked back and forth.

The boy looked over at his parents who were mesmerized by the TV screen. They were holding hands. He scrambled onto his father’s lap and pulled his face down to his.

“Daddy, don’t ever die,” he whispered. He suddenly wished he had the bag of pennies still. He thought that somehow, he had wasted them.