Just a Hat, page 3
“I always thought you were Mexican,” said Vonda. “You have an accent.”
“I have an accent?” Joseph asked.
“You do, but not bad. You put ‘eh’ in front of some words. Like, ‘You want to do it eh-faster?’ Is it a Jewish accent?”
“Not really. My parents speak Farsi. They’re from Iran. Miss Eleanor helps me pronounce things better in English. She calls it ‘elocution.’”
“Your parents are Pharisees?” asked Vonda.
“What’s a Pharisee?” asked Joseph.
“You know, the hypocrites in the Bible,” she said.
“I don’t know what a Pharisee is,” said Joseph. “I said they speak Farsi. Persian. It’s a language in Iran.”
“Where’s Iran?”
“The Middle East.”
“Where the Arabs live?”
“I’m not Arab!” Joseph slammed down the empty paper cup. He wasn’t quite over the hypocrite thing.
“Gee, I’m sorry,” Vonda apologized softly.
“It’s . . .” Joseph struggled. Americans were an ocean away from his family culturally. Being Jewish complicated it. “We’re Persian, not Arab. It’s different.”
“And that’s why you can’t eat off real plates?”
Joseph sighed. “I can eat off plates, but we can’t eat from things that touch unkosher foods or mix meat and dairy foods. Miss Eleanor keeps paper plates and cups for me and a separate lemonade pitcher. Can’t we talk about something else?”
“Is asking about your little cap ‘something else’?”
“It’s just a kippah. Try something else.”
“Did you learn to play the piano from Miss Eleanor?”
“Yes. I live next door.”
“You’ve heard a lot of bad piano playing then.”
Joseph took her hand, examining the soft, white skin curiously. “You do fine.” He set her warm hand down opposite his on the table. “Watch what I do, and then see if you can do it. It might help.” She watched while he did a finger exercise like playing chords on the tabletop. “Now you try.” He scooted his chair around so their hands were side by side to make it easier for her to imitate.
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open. Reverend Baer filled the doorway. With one look at Joseph, his face grew hard. “Where is Miss Eleanor?”
“She’s hanging laundry,” stammered Vonda.
“Who is this boy?” Reverend Baer demanded.
“He’s . . . Joseph. He lives next door.”
“Get in the car, Vonda.”
Vonda hurried out without saying goodbye. Joseph was not sure why the man was upset.
Reverend Baer said, “Stay away from my daughter, Jewish Boy. ‘What fellowship hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?’ The blood of Christ is on your head, son. Repent, be washed in Jesus’s blood, and remove the curse from your head.” The man turned and left.
Joseph wondered why the man thought there was blood on his kippah. And how could even more blood help? Every Shabbat before the meal, Joseph and Baba put on their kippahs. His father pressed his large hands firmly upon Joseph’s head, whispering blessings and endearments. Those warm hands clasped Joseph’s cheeks while he kissed them, hugging him close. Joseph breathed in the scents of heavy starch in Baba’s dress shirt and the clove of his Shabbat shower. “Youssef-jun,” Baba whispered, “nooré cheshm-am.” Joseph-dear, you are my life and the light of my eyes. Baba’s weekly blessing was the highlight of Joseph’s week.
Christians were a puzzle. If they were like LaLa, the Ybarras, and Vonda, they were good-hearted, sensible, friendly people. If they were like this man, they were angry people obsessed with blood. Maybe the man was exaggerating. Farsi was a language full of strange expressions. Maybe preachers had their own.
Joseph unclipped his kippah and turned it in his hands. Could a little kippah cause this kind of trouble?
That evening the phone rang. Baba answered. From his room, Joseph followed the conversation with Reverend Baer. His heart sank. He longed to hear Baba defend him, but Baba agreed with the blood-obsessed reverend.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“He touched her?”
“I agree.”
“No, is not permitted.”
“No, we do not permit.”
“I am sorry. I will speak to him immediately.”
“Yes, I will see to it. He will understand. I regret.”
“Sorry there is problem, but no more mistake.”
“Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”
The phone clacked down into its cradle. Joseph realized he was holding his breath. He heard Baba walk down the hall and stop at his door. He then opened it. Baba sat on the bed beside him. “You’re spending too much time at Miss Eleanor’s. An hour or so at her house is enough.”
“But LaLa needs me, Baba. I promised her I’d set up the chairs for the recital . . .”
Baba brushed aside Joseph’s protest. “Time to grow up, Youssef. No more coddling by your maman and Miss Eleanor. You’re taking on the obligations of a Jewish man at your bar mitzvah soon. You’ve violated Shabbat by playing the piano. You touched a girl. This will not happen again, you understand?” Baba stood, gently pinched Joseph’s ear, and left him alone. He didn’t wait for Joseph to say yes. It probably never occurred to Baba that Joseph would defy him.
6
BASEBALL CAP
“What’s the latest?” asked Shahla.
“School shopping,” said Joseph. “We were doing okay up until sneakers, tennis shoes, and dress shoes.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Shahla. “That’s a red zone.”
“Are you unkinking the phone cord?” asked Joseph.
The hesitation on the other end told Joseph he was right.
“No,” Shahla said.
“That’s because you just stopped,” said Joseph.
“But I’m not doing it now.”
Joseph grinned and said, “Maman and I went to the shoe store at the mall. The salesman was this tired old bird, you know, probably just lost his job selling vacuum cleaners. I thought it would scare him if the brown people spoke Farsi, so I told Maman in English that I needed sneakers for school.”
“Problem?” asked Shahla.
“Maman says, ‘Youssef-jun, why you need for to sneak at de school? You don’ go eh-sneakin’ ’round de school. You get in de trouble, and I have to call to your baba at work.’ The salesman looked at us like . . .”
“I can imagine,” said Shahla.
“And then,” Joseph continued. “I told her I needed white tennis shoes. You know, for gym class. She was already on a roll, and she says, ‘De Shah of Iran de only Persian in de worl’ who play tennis, Youssef. Why you need dis tennis shoe?’”
Shahla laughed aloud. “That’s pretty funny,” Shahla said. “You gotta admit, that’s funny.”
“The salesman wasn’t amused. When he heard me tell her that Baba said to get black dress shoes to go with my bar mitzvah suit, he rolled his eyes practically back in his head.”
“Emmm . . . do I dare ask what she said?” asked Shahla.
“She said, ‘Youssef, you don’ making any sense today. Nex’ time I send you wit’ your fader to buy de shoe. Boy don’ wear dress to bar mitzvah whedder dey black or any odder color.’”
Shahla gave a rare belly laugh. “Now that I’d like to see. You in a black dress at your bar mitzvah.”
Joseph said, “I’m pretty sure the salesman went back to the vacuum cleaner store.”
“Oh, my baba finally got you a Houston Astros cap,” said Shahla. “I’ll bring it to your bar mitzvah.”
“Wow, thanks!” said Joseph. Shahla’s adopted baba sold to major sports stadiums, supplying them roasted nuts for concessions. He often received free tickets to baseball games, reserved seats at the racetrack, and souvenir hats. With Shahla’s prompting, he’d obtained Joseph a collection of ballcaps and tickets to a Rangers game. Joseph had the prized Dallas Cowboys and Texas Rangers caps. The Houston Astros had been elusive.
Shahla said, “I had to apply a little pressure. I hinted that if Baba didn’t want Maman to find out that he checks me out of school to go to the horse races sometimes, and that I can read a Daily Racing Form and bet the exacta and trifecta, then it would be nice to have an Astros cap. He got me a signed one.”
Joseph had to laugh. Shahla was quiet, but she was clever when she really wanted something.
“In fact,” said Shahla, “he was so motivated that he got three signed hats, so you can give one to Mateo and Roberto.”
“Who signed them?” asked Joseph.
“César Cedeño.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Why?” asked Shahla. “Is he famous or something?”
“Or something,” said Joseph. “Please tell your baba that I’ll be his servant for life, and I’m not worthy of his generosity, I dance circles around him, and any other taarof thing that pops into your head.”
“Youssef-jun,” called Maman from the living room.
Joseph had to hurry. “Hey, I met this girl . . .”
Maman’s steps approached the kitchen.
“Anyway, later,” said Joseph.
“What am I thinking?” asked Shahla.
“Why do I leave you hanging when I know I have to hang up,” said Joseph, and he handed the receiver off to Maman.
7
WATCH CAP
The beginning of the school year was exciting. Now that he was in eighth grade, Joseph took seven classes per day. The hallway was a great place to be admired. With Joseph’s coaching, Maman had purchased the cool-kid, basic male uniform of Levi’s 501s, V-neck shirts with stripes from collar to sleeves, and striped sneakers.
Some of the kids, the “goat ropers,” wore Levi’s, Justin boots, and cowboy-style shirts. Other kids wore jeans and T-shirts promoting rock concerts they were too young to attend. University of Texas, Dallas Cowboys, and Texas A&M logos were acceptable formal or casual wear for anyone. Smaller groups liked to call themselves gangs. You could blame the English teachers for that. They’d assigned The Outsiders for class reading in seventh grade. After that, little groups such as the Posse Comitatus popped up.
In the wintertime, the Posse liked to wear long, cowboy-style dusters, but they’d melt like a chocolate bar in a hot car in this late-summer heat. The Posse could have picked a more practical uniform. Anyone could pick out the D&D’s, Delinquents and Druggies, from the smell of cigarettes, no special clothes required. In junior high, everyone had to fit somewhere.
Because he was in the advanced math and science classes, Joseph hung out with the smart kids sometimes, but lunch determined your social group. Joseph had eaten with the Hispanics since kindergarten.
Thursdays were “Pep Day,” and almost everyone wore some form of the school hawk logo. Texans were serious about football. The gym filled on Thursday afternoons for the pep rally. The cheerleaders led the cheers and skits; the band played the school fight song. The football players sat together in chairs on the gym floor in their Levi’s and football jerseys.
The coaches tried to look interested. The vice principals marched in late with the kids who sneaked a smoke in the bathroom. The teachers played whack-a-mole with gum chewers, paper-ball throwers, and the gravest of sinners, those who didn’t sit in their assigned bleacher area with homeroom. Joseph liked stomping his feet on the wooden bleachers while the cheerleaders whipped everyone into a frenzy: “Beat ’em, bust ’em, that’s our custom, go, Hawks, go!” The noise was thunderous. Sometimes one of the varsity players juked or pumped his fist, which lifted the noise level from thunderous to ear-splitting. Joseph liked school. A lot. It was one place he fit in.
Since Joseph had touched Vonda Baer, something about the girls at the pep rallies excited him more. He noticed the cheerleaders’ long, bare legs when they did cartwheels. The cheerleaders were like grown women with fully formed bodies, perfect makeup, big loopy earrings, and confidence.
This Thursday, the varsity was playing its first away game. That meant white visitor jerseys with black-and-gold numbers and sleeve stripes. The players stood with four fingers jammed into their pockets, feet square, looking smug. Joseph noticed the two boys who had ruined the peach sharbet standing among the football players. One of them stood on the first row, which meant he was a starter. The other one stood on the third row, which meant he wasn’t. Well, that could ruin a pep rally. Thugs.
Joseph climbed the wooden bleachers to the stomping chant, “‘We will . . . we will . . . rock you.’” He pushed his way to Mr. Chappelle’s homeroom section and sat at the end of a row. Amid the waving pom-poms and spirit rags, Joseph turned and scanned the bleachers. His two homeroom buddies hadn’t made it yet, so he scooted over and left a little space on the end of the row. When Roberto and Alex started up the bleachers, Joseph stood and waved his hand so they’d see him. They both carried English textbooks. They’d probably gotten out of class late and decided to carry them rather than stop to put them in their lockers.
On the gym floor below, the possum-faced football player in the third row caught Joseph’s eye. He mouthed, “Pretty Boy,” and blew Joseph a kiss.
“Pedar sagg,” Joseph shouted back.
The boy made a vile motion with his hand and forearm. It was so fast that none of the teachers or coaches saw it.
“Ahbal,” added Joseph.
“Who you calling a dumbass?” asked Roberto. They exchanged curse word vocabulary. Roberto could curse in Farsi almost as well as Joseph could curse in Spanish.
Joseph pointed down to the third row on the gym floor.
“Yeah,” said Roberto. “Tonto.”
Joseph was no longer interested in the peach thug, though. He’d spotted Vonda Baer two rows down and to his left. Her honey-colored hair was styled back in deep feathers, dripping blonde layers down her back. There was a narrow aisle between the two sections, and a little space to the right of her. Joseph glanced over at Mr. Chappelle, who probably would give anything to be in the teacher’s lounge with a cigarette and a Styrofoam cup of burnt coffee. A peppermint lozenge didn’t cover up those smells.
“Give me your English book,” said Joseph to Roberto.
“What for? You gonna carry my books to class for me?” Roberto joked.
“Nah. Hers.” Joseph grabbed Roberto’s book and gently tossed it underhand. It tumbled into the foot space of Vonda’s row. She looked over her shoulder.
Joseph tiptoed down the narrow strip of bleachers until he reached her row. “Hey,” he said, and reached down for the English book. “Sorry. Lost my grip.”
Vonda smiled at him. She was wearing a Hawks spirit shirt, jeans, and a puka-shell necklace with matching earrings. Star-blue eyes, each star a glittering, miniature smile. Joseph felt like he was going to fall down the bleachers.
Just then, the band started playing the national anthem. Joseph straightened and put his hand over his heart to sing along. Vonda smiled and leaned closer to hear him, so he sang a little louder. The school song followed, and Joseph risked a look over his shoulder. Mr. Chappelle glared at him. Joseph held up the book and made an apologetic expression. By then, the empty spaces between the sections were packed with standing students. It would be almost impossible to get back to his assigned homeroom section. Mr. Chappelle glared harder but shook his head. Joseph was to stay put.
For forty-five minutes, Joseph was only barely aware of the activities on the floor below. He’d always envied the football players, but he wouldn’t trade places with any of them today, especially the one who kept scowling at him from the third row.
8
MAD HATTER
Joseph sat on the curb of Rehkopf’s Grocery with a paper bag. He waited for LaLa to return with the forgotten baking soda. Baba would scold him if he knew that Joseph had carried the bag of groceries for LaLa. Groceries were muktzeh, a forbidden burden on Shabbat. Being Jewish on Saturday in Texas was a source of constant technical questions. He sighed, roasting in his dress shirt.
Two boys rode up on bicycles and leaned them against the brick wall of the store. They argued over what they would buy with their pooled resources of seventy-eight cents before they took notice of Joseph. Joseph didn’t turn, hoping they wouldn’t recognize him. No such luck. “Hey, kid,” said one of them.
“Hey,” said Joseph.
“What’s that little doily on your head?”
Joseph could kick himself for not hiding his kippah in his pocket. It was a new one he’d received for his upcoming bar mitzvah. Plain black, like Baba’s. “Nothing,” he said.
The other boy sneered. “Why does it have a girl’s hair clip in it? Are you queer or something?”
Joseph knew what queer was, but there was something in the way the boy said it. Maybe it didn’t mean exactly what Joseph thought it did. He looked around, and the grime on the first boy’s sneakers matched the grime on the school mascot ballcap. The cap proclaimed: “Fighting Hawks.” It wasn’t very respectful of the school bird to let the cap get so dirty. Dirty birds.
“He’s a homo,” pronounced the first boy. “Look at that girly face and those sissy clothes. Hey . . . you’re the Mexican kid that hollered at me.”
Joseph remained silent, wishing he didn’t have long eyelashes and rosy cheeks that earned affectionate pinches from Maman and his aunts. They exclaimed, “Moosh bokhoradet!” when they pinched his cheeks. It was a good thing that his synagogue friends didn’t know that it was Farsi for “A mouse should eat you!” He’d end up being called Moosh for the rest of his life.
