He patiently worked me through the first third of the white belt form for the next half hour, by the end of which my feet were finding the center of the taped cross.
“Try it all the way through now,” he said.
One, two, three, I counted in my head a few times before moving. My feet ending up where they were supposed to wasn’t all that difficult when all I was doing was simply turning and punching and stepping back. But now I had to complete the form. One, two, three; one, two, three...I glanced back at Dad. His legs were still crossed, but his jaw was no longer clenched.
Mom smiled at me.
High-pitched noises emanated from my nose as I punched, counted; blocked, counted; kicked, counted, and finished back in the center of the cross. I wasn’t dead center, but both of my feet were on the proper side of the median. I smiled at Rubin, who smiled back with blinding white teeth.
“That’s it,” he said. “You’ll be dead center in no time with a little practice.”
I looked back at Dad. He wasn’t smiling. Instead, he was busy speaking with Rubin’s father. Dad’s hands sliced the air, and Rubin’s father nodded intently and made exaggerated facial expressions.
Mr. Bollars called for formation; we bowed and class was dismissed.
“You did good,” Rubin said. There was no mocking in his voice, only encouragement.
Because he was so young and a black belt, I had misjudged Rubin. With all he had accomplished, I thought he would be more arrogant, conceited, unapproachable.
“Thanks. Sorry you got stuck working with the slow kid.”
“Don’t say that, man. Time and work is all it takes.”
“It didn’t take you much time.”
“My father had me in classes when I was four,” Rubin said. “That was back in Puerto Rico. My gi dragged the floor, and it was the smallest one they made. It took me twelve years to
get my black belt.”
I was wrong. I had thought Rubin was one of those people for whom accomplishments came easily. I liked what he said, and I wondered: With time and work, could I beat someone to the fuck?
Dad was still speaking to Rubin’s father, Mom exchanging pleasantries with his plump wife.
“No,” I heard Rubin’s father say as I approached them, “you come to our house.”
“But I’m bringing the steaks,” Dad said.
They shook hands.
“Meet Mr. Lopez,” Dad said to me and Mr. Lopez shook my hand vigorously. He was a short man—smaller than his son—and wore a ruby pinky ring and a thin, round gold chain with a crucifix on the end. His skin was a dark yellow, as if he had spent a lot of time in the sun, but his face was smooth and wrinkle-free.
The same couldn’t be said for his wife. Wrinkles abounded on her face and her raven hair was lined with rust-colored streaks. Her stomach poked straight out, and it looked as if she had a basketball under her shirt.
“You and your parents are coming over Saturday night for dinner,” Mr. Lopez said.
“What do you think about that?” Dad asked with a wide smile.
“Good, sir.” But I wasn’t sure how good it was. Rubin was nice and his father seemed fine, but I wondered about Dad’s motives.
On the drive home Dad said: “Rubin’s the youngest black belt in the whole state. And I want you to break his record. If that Puerto Rican can become one at sixteen, there’s no reason you can’t do it even quicker.”
“Rubin started a lot younger than Wesley,” Mom said. “His mama told me he’s been taking tae kwon do since he was real little. You can’t expect Wesley to get a black belt in a few months.”
“I know it’ll take more than months. But if he works at it, he can double up some of those belts, and get to black quicker.”
Now I knew Dad’s motives: wow the Lopezes with gargantuan steaks to keep Rubin in good favor and ensure he would continue working with me.
At home, Mom joined Dad and me to watch that night’s lesson.
“Fast-forward to the end,” Mom said. “When Wesley and Rubin are working together.”
“We’ll get there,” Dad said.
“Why do we have to watch this part?” Mom said.
“He has to see what he did wrong in order to improve.”
“He does improve, and you know it. It’s just at the end of the tape. So get there.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, making your son feel like he can’t do nothing in front of you because all you’re gonna do is stress the bad. Every night you record him, and y’all come home and you show him what he did wrong. You never praise the boy. You take away all of Wesley’s incentive. Just because your daddy never took any time with you ain’t no reason you got to do the same.”
“Take time with him? That’s all I do.”
“Yelling and cussing him ain’t the right type of time.”
“Fine then. You raise him the way you want,” Dad said. “I’m gonna go check the birdhouse.”
The backdoor slammed and I took Dad’s seat.
“You know how to skip to the end?” Mom asked, handing me the remote.
“Sure do.”
We watched the tape, and Mom didn’t say one negative thing.
CHAPTER 4
Sid wore a white paper hat and a blood-stained apron, and was sharpening knives when Dad and I walked up.
“What you got good?” Dad asked, stepping behind the counter.
“I got some filet mignon coming in Monday.”
“I need some for Saturday.”
“I’ve got some good T-bones right there,” Sid said and pointed to the far end of the display case.
“I don’t want no damn T-bones. They’re paper thin and nothing but fat streaks.”
Sid smiled nervously and looked around to see if anyone heard Dad.
“You don’t have anything in the back?”
“If you want anything in particular I need seventy-two hours notice. You know that.”
Dad shoved his hands in his back pockets and stared up to the ceiling. Sid’s mouth hung open, showing his missing canine, and he looked happy to see Dad frustrated.
Dad scanned the display case. “What about that roast?” Dad said, pointing. “That’ll make six steaks.”
“It’s too small,” Sid said, no longer smiling. “There won’t be anything left of it. I can’t waste a perfectly good roast.”
“You won’t be ruining a roast, you’ll be creating steaks.”
“I can’t do it.”
Dad stepped close to him, and Sid raised his knife to chest level, but I wondered how seriously Dad took the knife.
“You run this market, don’t you?” Dad asked.
“But IGA owns it. I got to follow their rules.”
“You were following their rules the other day? I know you pocket that steak money, Sid. Don’t make me take it from you.”
Sid, a full-frown on his face, laid down the knife. We left with six steaks sliced out of the roast.
Rubin lived ten minutes away in the subdivision across Mobile Highway, and I knew Mom didn’t want to go to the Lopez house because she distrusted all Hispanics. She thought they all carried knives and would rob and cut you without a second thought. Still, she didn’t say anything to Dad because she knew going to dinner at the Lopez house was to ensure that Rubin would take an interest in me at the dojo, and she wouldn’t purposely undermine one of Dad’s projects that involved helping me.
The Lopez house was smaller than ours. A bar dominated the right wall of the cramped living room, which spilled into the dining room and led into a tiny kitchen. Mr. Lopez, in a Hawaiian shirt and Panama Jack straw hat, was behind the bar, waving at us as Mrs. Lopez showed us in.