“I hope they start him,” Bah Ba said in Cantonese. He let out a belch and began to clip his toenails, eyes stuck on the TV. Next to him on the edge of the kitchen table was a large sculpture. Carved from soapstone, it was an abstract family of four, faceless figures connected to one another through their limbs. I’d traded my Jordan XII’s for it. I’d spent the summer in Zimbabwe through a study abroad program, and I’d see folks everywhere hawking sculptures of families, but I wanted one that represented my family, a family of four that included just one parent. I was ready to give up my search when I finally found one. I threw in an extra thirty bucks to the sculptor to sweeten the deal. But I was dumb enough to pack it in my luggage instead of as a carry-on. It broke apart en route. I duct-taped it back together though, thinking the black tape would blend in with the dark stone color, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. It was an eyesore, bandaged figures.
I thought about how awkward the conversation would be if Bah Ba were to ask what the story was behind the sculpture, how I’d have to explain that I’d been in Africa through a summer program at school, that I was a student now at UC Berkeley, entering my senior year. He might act stunned, maybe he’d say something complimentary. Worse, I’d feel obligated to ask about his life.
I sat with him until the end of the football highlights. As I got up to leave, I slid him the plastic-wrapped remote.
The last night my father was in town, I waited up for him in the living room. It was a little past midnight. His flight was at dawn, and I thought someone should at least say bye. For all we knew, this could be his final visit. We’d acted like we wanted it to be, leaving the room when he’d enter.
Jerry Springer was on. A woman was in a soundproof room, waiting to reveal a secret to her boyfriend who was on stage. The guy was professing his love for his longtime girlfriend to the audience, cheesing so much you knew this was going to end badly.
I was lying on the sofa when Bah Ba came home. It was the same sofa he’d owned in Minnesota, a twill sectional. He’d shipped it to us when he sold his house.
“Dickson,” Bah Ba said, “meih fun gaau?” He seemed overly concerned, as though I had a bedtime. It reminded me of his last visit. I was pouring boiling water into a bowl of Cup Noodles, and he said, “Siu sum.” Be careful? I was eighteen. Maybe he had difficulty grasping that my childhood was gone.
“I’m going to stay up for this show,” I said.
The girlfriend had come onto the stage and was sitting next to her boyfriend, holding his hand.
Bah Ba sank into the bean bag. He wore a polo shirt tucked in, a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket. The shirt fit loosely on his skinny frame.
“You ever watch this?” I asked.
“I have to wake up early for work,” he said.
“Right.”
The girlfriend confessed she had been born a man. The boyfriend shoved her away, almost knocking her off the chair. Then he stood up like he was going to sock her. The audience started cheering as the security guard leapt up to the stage, “Steve! Steve! Steve!”
“So stupid.” Bah Ba pointed with his chin at the boyfriend duped by his lover. “How could he not know?” My father laughed.
I cringed at the irony. On top of one of the stereo floor speakers was a glass bottle in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. It was filled with slanted layers of sugar, each layer a different color, a souvenir from my mom’s trip to Paris with Willie.
I didn’t want to have to tell Bah Ba the truth. That was my mother’s responsibility. The fact that my father still didn’t know about Willie made him more pathetic, an aging man continuing to be deceived. I’d thought he deserved it, but the man on the bean bag was not the same man I knew. He was harmless.
I was a college student yapping about change. I’d tell kids how I’d gone from Ds in high school to UC Berkeley, how anything was possible for them—I was living proof—but when it came to my father, I could only conceive of him as a fucked-up dad.
“It’s not too late,” I said.
Bah Ba turned to me, and he somehow knew what I was trying to say. There was an openness in his expression, almost like that of a child.
“You haven’t always been there,” I said, “but you can still be our Bah Ba.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder, his touch gentle. He nodded. “Yes, OK.” His eyes glistened.
“I forgive you,” I said and hugged him. We pulled away without looking at one another.
“Fun gaau,” he said. “It’s late.”
“Houh la,” I said. OK.
At the time, I thought this was my Hollywood ending. That’s not to say my relationship with Bah Ba didn’t change at all. He called when he returned to Minnesota. Asked specifically for me. My mother wondered what the hell was going on. The day I graduated Berkeley, I phoned Bah Ba, wanted to share that moment with my father, and a week later, I received a card from him saying congratulations. He also included a check for a hundred bucks. But that was more or less the extent of our relationship for the next three years, until the birth of my brother’s
