Sightseeing (22 page)

But Papa shrugged and said the loss was expected. Losing had been part of his strategy. The diseased cock was going to die anyway. Once he taught his chickens how to be afraid, he'd start winning his money back. He'd humiliate Little Jui and that Filipino boy. He'd be champion again.

Still, he told us that something unexpected happened at the pit that afternoon: The men had cheered Little Jui, applauded the Filipino boy and his purebreds.

“It's like they have no memory,” Papa said. “It's like they forgot what he did to me. They treated him like a veteran. And they treated me like I was some amateur.”

“People like winners,” Mama said.

“How can they forget what his family's done?”

“People like winners,” Mama said again.

“I heard you the first time, Saiya.”

“Give it up,” Mama said, collecting our plates. “It's a lost cause. That boy's making a fool of you
and
he's taking all our money. It's probably his father's idea, that's what I think. Big Jui arranged to have that Filipino boy sent over, didn't he? He's probably laughing at you now, Wichian.”

I looked at Papa. I thought I saw his face darken, a light shadow pass over his features, and I wondered if this had always
happened, if—in my ignorance—I'd always missed the severity of Papa's features whenever he was confronted with Big Jui's name.

“That man,” Papa said, “has nothing to do with this, Saiya. It's between me and the boy.”

“Sure,” Mama said. “Whatever you say, Wichian.”

“Besides,” Papa said, “I'm going to win next week. You just watch. Once I'm through training the cocks, they'll mince those Filipino purebreds.”

“Well, good luck to you, Wichian,” Mama said, shaking her head. “Have fun trying. But before you teach your chickens how to dodge a speeding bullet, let me remind you that you've lost twelve thousand now. In case you haven't heard, nobody's betting against that Filipino boy.”

“You just watch,” Papa said grimly to Mama. “Have a little faith in my chickens.”

XIII

We rarely saw Papa that week. He'd come home from the factory and retire immediately to the chicken house. I'd occasionally watch Papa go through his routine: massaging the cocks' thighs, bathing them, purifying the feed, sharpening the spurs, making sure they received the proper amount of sun. If Papa was teaching the chickens fear, I couldn't see how. They were getting the usual treatment, the kind of impeccable care
that—according to Mama—would end a lot of suffering if the town's women and children were treated the same.

Sunday drew near. I didn't see Little Jui; again, I had begun to dread the outside world after our last encounter. Open air made me nervous. In my mind, the Range Rover loomed around every corner. Noon invited me out several times, but I told her I needed to help Mama with the lingerie. I rushed headlong between home and school, taking the long way along the small path reserved for dirt bikes and water buffaloes that ran through the rubber grove. Better the strays, I thought, than Little Jui and his goons. I considered telling Mama about Little Jui's advances, but she had become unflappably morose—complaining at all times about Papa, about the chickens, about Miss Mayuree—and I didn't want to aggravate her mood. Besides, I didn't know if Little Jui's menace would have real consequences or if it was simply designed to frighten me and, as a result, Papa as well. Many hours were spent considering the possibilities, none innocent, while Papa tended to his chickens outside my bedroom window. I started having strange, barbaric dreams.

Friday morning, after he'd run the cocks, Papa was out in the yard with what looked like a black kitchen radio in his hands. Two chickens flapped around the yard before him, sparring without their spurs, lurching at one another, their bodies clashing in the air as a bright bursting of color. I went to help Mama with breakfast. She turned to me and said, “The insanity, Ladda. Just look at him.”

I looked. I realized then that the kitchen radio Papa held in his hands was actually the radio for a remote-control car. I realized, too, that there weren't two cocks in the yard at all—there was only one. The other was a rubber chicken attached to the roof of the remote-control car. Papa'd painted plumage on the decoy's synthetic body, splotches of green and ochre and yellow and white. It was a childish paint job: on closer look, the decoy looked more like a clown than a gamecock. Nonetheless, Papa tried to chase the cock with the contraption. Unfazed, the cock kept launching at his rubber compatriot, toppling it over, Papa cursing each time before righting the car once more, only to have the chicken knock the contraption down again, the car's wheels whizzing wildly in the air, jerking the fake chicken with its momentum so that it wiggled with artificial life. On and on it went, and with each blow the cock landed on his rubber opponent, he seemed to gather courage rather than fear, though that courage soon turned to irritation: The cock didn't even bother to leap into the air to deliver his blows anymore, he just charged absent-mindedly before turning his attention elsewhere as Papa prepared the contraption again. The cock knew as Papa knew as Mama and I knew that a rubber chicken attached to a remote-control car was nothing to be afraid of. I realized then the extent of my father's desperation. Papa, I understood now, didn't know what he was doing.

“Wow,” I said to Mama. “That's interesting.”

“I've seen it all,” Mama muttered, shaking her head. Papa tried a few more times. The cock rushed doggedly at the contraption, pecked curiously at the overturned toy car.

Then Papa dashed the controls to the ground and smashed them with a few violent stomps. The box shattered into tiny black pieces, springs and coils and wires and plastic parts scattering across the yard. Thinking it might be feed, the cock waddled over and inspected the pieces strewn around Papa's feet.

“Oh God,” Mama said. “Go calm him down, Ladda. He's not coming to breakfast like that.”

Before I could step off the porch, however, Papa's anger had moved on from the remote control to the cock itself. He kicked it. The cock leapt into the air. Papa lunged at the creature with his hands; I thought he would wring its neck right then and there. But the cock leapt defiantly back into Papa's face. Papa fell, surprised by the cock's retaliation, and the cock jumped feetfirst into my father's face again, tried to sink its sharpened talons into Papa's cheeks, mad clucks like tiny screams echoing in the morning. Papa tried to shove the cock off his face, batted it with his hands, but the cock kept leaping toward him, a relentless flurry of feathers.

I cried out for Papa, ran toward him, but he didn't hear me. After a short struggle, he managed to grab the cock by the neck and bash its body against the ground. I thought Papa would sever the cock's head from its body with his bashing, but then he gathered the creature into his arms and held it to
his chest with its beak facing forward, its wings trapped between his knees—the safest position (I'd been told for as long as I could remember) to handle a gamecock. The chicken thrashed violently for a moment before settling down, its chest heaving in Papa's grip, its head skittering to and fro.

“Stupid,” I heard Papa mumble when I approached. I didn't know if he was talking to the chicken or to himself. “Papa,” I said. “Are you okay?” He turned to me suddenly, eyes wide as if in a trance. He'd never looked at me like that before. I was afraid Papa would turn his rage on me now. I stepped back. He wasn't Papa anymore; he'd become somebody else. He looked crazed. The cock had left a few light gashes on his face. Blood rose to the skin's surface like war paint. With that chicken fussing between his knees, Papa looked like one of the wildmen in a documentary about the Amazon I'd seen years ago, when we bought our first color set from his winnings. But then Papa came back to himself. The madness left his eyes. He smiled at me sheepishly.

“Here,” he said, holding out the creature with both hands. “Take the chicken,” he said, as if he'd been waiting all morning for me to do the task. I gathered the creature into my arms, trapped its body between my knees. The cock began to purr, its body vibrating delicately against my thighs. I thought I could feel its tiny chicken heart fluttering beneath the skin. On the other side of the yard, the remote-control car lay on its side like a toy some fickle child had abandoned. Papa wiped his face with his shirt, light streaks of blood
dotting the fabric. The gashes were superficial. He squatted before me.

“What am I going to do with you?” Papa said grimly. I thought he was speaking to me; I didn't know what to say. But then I realized that Papa was speaking to the chicken. The cock nudged my father lightly on the nose as if to apologize. Papa held the chicken by its neck to still its frenetic head. “Why won't you cooperate?”

“Are you okay?” I asked again. My heart was still hopping wildly in its cage from the way Papa had looked at me, crouched on the ground with those gashes on his face, that chicken between his knees, those eyes strange in their sockets. The chicken struggled, wriggled its wings between my thighs. Papa took it back into his arms. “Go back inside, Ladda,” he said. “I won't be having breakfast this morning.”

“No,” I said. I don't know why I refused—it seemed somebody else had spoken the word even as it rolled off my tongue—but I'd been filled with anger toward my father at that moment. I would've defied him even if he'd tried to embrace me. “No, Papa. Come inside. Give it a rest.”

Papa smiled sheepishly again. Then he just stood there looking at me with his mouth half-opened. I wanted to ask Papa about his sister then. Ever since talking to Noon, I wanted to know my aunt as somebody other than the Slobbering Slut. I wanted to know her by another name. Because, by then, the moniker had become the substance of my nightmares: spittle and blood and sex and men grunting in back
alleys and a lunatic's laughter answering their cries. I thought things might be tolerable if I could know her name. I said, “Papa—your sister—,” but Papa looked at me strangely, eyebrows raised, like I wasn't making any sense.

“Sister?” he asked. “What are you talking about, Ladda?”

“Mama told me,” I said. “Mama told me the other day.”

“That's ridiculous,” Papa said.

“But Mama said your sister and Big Jui—”

“Ladda,” Papa interrupted. “You should know better. People make up all sorts of nonsense about each other to pass the time.”

He smiled at me then, but this time Papa's smile seemed writ with cunning: too many teeth, too much lifting of the lips, too much feigned delight in his eyes. I thought, for a second, of the smile that hung from Little Jui's face in the Range Rover. Papa was lying. Papa was denying his own sister.

So I left him there with his chicken in the yard.

XIV

Papa lost. And then he lost again. And then, the week after, he lost once more. There were only five chickens left in the chicken house; we were poorer by the thousands now. Mama stopped talking to him altogether, which didn't really matter because Papa had sunk into himself more and more with each Sunday loss.

I no longer sought my father's company. After he'd lied about his own sister, I felt as if I were seeing him for the first time in my life, stripped of any daughterly admiration. I wasn't angry with him; I was frightened. I wondered if Papa would deny me, too, if Little Jui had his way with me. I spent days in my room, burrowed deep in my books. The house became silent; we'd become mimes acting out the play of our lives.

One morning, a Thursday, Mama threatened to leave. She didn't marry a lowlife gambler, she said. If he went back to the pit, he would be coming home to an empty house. She said Miss Mayuree had offered a room in her house. Though Mama had made many similar threats through the years, she'd never brought somebody outside our family into the fray. I didn't know whether she'd really called Miss Mayuree or whether Mama thought that her name might convey to Papa the severity of her threat. When I asked her about it over sewing one evening, she simply shrugged and said, “We'll see.”

Papa's tactics became more desperate. He'd scrapped the remote-control car and, instead, started sparring with the chickens himself every morning. He'd put on thick construction gloves and charge at them. All he got for his efforts were a few more scars. The chickens became wary of him, though they seemed far from afraid. Whenever he entered the chicken house, their angry clucks would echo through the property and I'd wonder if chickens were smart enough to start a mutiny.

A passel of strays broke into the chicken house that Friday night. I woke to their barking, to my father's cursing and kicking at them, to the chickens' frightened chattering. When I looked out the window, I saw a stray with a chicken between its teeth, trotting away with his head held high while the others lingered around him, waiting to share the bounty. Papa stood at the chicken-house door holding a broom. When the strays disappeared, he sat on the ground, dropped the broom, and buried his face in his hands. I thought he was crying, but soon I saw that he was merely massaging his temples. He disappeared into the chicken house again. I wished then that the strays had taken all of Papa's chickens. I watched the rubber trees, hoping they would return again. But they didn't. I only heard their yaps and howls out there, fighting over the chicken.

Little Jui called the house the next afternoon.

“Hey, sexy,” he panted. “Haven't seen you around.”

I hung up. But he called right back. I just stood there staring at the phone, thinking I might smash it to pieces.

“Who's that?” Mama asked as the phone's ringing echoed through our house. She must've known from the way I looked at her, because she pushed me aside and picked up the receiver.